


In the Midnight Hour

by kkeithkatt



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Accidental Self-Harm, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Asexual Keith (Voltron), Depression, Dreams, Druid Keith (Voltron), Grief, Half-Galra Keith (Voltron), It's hinted at but not super obvious tbh, It's not abo but he does go through something like a heat, Kerberos Mission, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Not Really Character Death, Pilot Episode, Post-Kerberos Mission, Presumed character death, Quintessence-Sensitive Keith (Voltron), Trans Keith (Voltron), pre pilot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:01:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25006597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kkeithkatt/pseuds/kkeithkatt
Summary: There's something calling for him in the desert.With the Kerberos mission deemed a failure, Keith has nothing left to lose and everything to gain.The energy takes him through grief, twisted dreams, and his pa's lost family secrets. With every passing day, it gets harder to not give up.But Keith will never stop looking for Shiro.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 70
Collections: Black Paladins Bang 2020





	In the Midnight Hour

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited to share this with all of you!! This was my first fandom challenge as a pair and it was such an overwhelmingly new experience. I hope you enjoy this! It was really fun to write.
> 
> Quick note though: in this universe Voltron never had the old paladins. Alfor still built them but him and his friends never bonded with them to fly. It's not super relevant to the story but just something to point out.

There are a lot of things Keith knows.

He knows he’s a damn good pilot. Numerous test scores and flight simulations have proven so, as do the illegal joyrides Shiro’s let him sneak in on. Keith can feel the edge of any gears and just know how to handle them. He remembers desert days flying his dad’s old hoverbike, wind warm on his face and crisp in his teeth, and feels like the sky was made just for him to touch. Colors blur his eyes, stain his skin, and crowd his heart.

He knows the old dark knife like a map. The smooth curve of its stone, purple and glowing and smooth and unlike any other rock he’s ever seen. He can trace the edge of its blade in the dark with his eyes closed and not get a single knick, fingers just knowing the path and right amount of pressure to test. He can hear his father’s voice some nights, when the air is too cold and the blade is in his hand, lungs empty.

He knows the shape of his face when the weather is hazy and his thoughts muddled with sleep, eyes too distant and dark and mouth too hard for him to be anything like welcoming. Thoughts of everyone deeming him the problem child, a wasted case, ring in his ears, and echo in his punches. He keeps the bandages close.

Keith knows the sound of his father’s voice like a distant memory that’s too close to disappearing for his comfort. He knows the smell of fresh-baked bread at ass o’clock at night. He knows the feeling of soft bird feathers under his hands and the nip of a beak seconds later. He knows what it’s like to be very afraid.

He knows his name, his favorite animal, the way he acts when drunk, but more than anything, Keith knows he is irrecoverably in love with Takashi Shirogane.

Takashi Shirogane is the kind of fever dream a younger Keith would wish for in the quiet confines of an unfamiliar bedroom. He remembers how alone he had felt, how he still feels, and someone like Shiro, back then, would have changed everything. When he first met him and all Shiro had given him was kindness, he thought a lot about what he would have been like if he had met Shiro earlier, if they had somehow fallen into each other’s orbits long before the Garrison.

Keith thinks he might have turned out a bit warmer. Maybe less sharp around the edges. But perhaps not. His dad had always called him a spitfire with a ruffle of his too-long hair, even then. Right before he took him out back to practice throwing knives and shooting arrows.

So maybe Keith wouldn’t be softer or kinder but he does think he’d be happier.

Shiro had blurred his anger, able to swipe it away and cool the edges and last burning embers just with a simple touch to his shoulder. On bad days, his voice was enough to pull him from his thoughts and into the dirt road streets of town. Love, Keith learned, could come slow and sticky like syrup.

He doesn’t know when it happened, no more than anyone else does with those things. One day, Shiro was just another guy trying to sweeten his resume up with helping problem kids and the next he was Keith’s best friend and the only other person he cared about. But the when doesn’t really matter, not to him.

It feels like he’s been in love since he met him and maybe a younger him had seen where this was going, could sense his fall into madness and foreign emotions, and had rebelled against that more than Shiro’s own genuine kindness. Maybe he had known, in his own way, how it would go, but he’d never change it.

Keith knows he loves Shiro. He knows the bend of his smile when he’s drunk on the moonlight and Shiro is laughing maybe a bit too hard because he’s hazy with sleep and giggly with exhaustion.

Keith knows that when he loses Shiro, he loses himself.

* * *

  
  


He gets called into Iverson’s office on a Tuesday.

It’s past lunch and he has another class, Intermediate Engineering with Lieutenant Jay, and his uniform is too tight and he’s tired. It’s been a long couple of months, Shiro’s absence heavy by his side and too loud in the silence surrounding him. Every day his book bag is just a bit harder to lift, uniform too stiff for his liking. It’s exhausting and he wants to pull out his hair and just scream at everyone but his promise to Shiro rings in his ear with every step, every test. He has to succeed, if not for himself than for the man Shiro thought him to be. Wanted him to be.

Iverson doesn’t yell at him for his too-long hair or his slightly untucked shirt though nor does he comment on the scuff of Keith’s boots. Instead he gestures to an empty chair and sighs as he sits in his own overly large one. As Keith sits, fist clenched and eyes narrowed because he’s pretty sure he hasn’t done anything wrong lately but he never really knows here anymore, Iverson sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. His anxiety spikes and he shifts in the seat.

He coughs before speaking.

“Thursday morning the Persephone missed their scheduled contact briefing.” Iverson starts, eyes focused ahead and nowhere close to Keith’s face. He feels his jaw clench and he straightens in his seat. “After multiple attempts to contact them and failing, we hacked the logs. Video feed was inaccessible and no transmissions were being received.” Iverson sighs before clearing his throat. “The Garrison is declaring the Kerberos mission a failure, as it appears the crew crashed. The last reports suggest they made it past the Kuiper belt and were in Pluto’s orbit. Beside that, we have no way of knowing what's happened.”

A buzz starts in his ear. The air is warmer and Keith doesn’t know anything.

Iverson keeps going. “The Kerberos mission was lost, son. Officer Shirogane and his crew are deemed dead.”

The words wash over him. Distantly Keith is aware that Iverson is talking, that he’s explaining something, maybe something important, but all he hears is a cool ringing in his ear

_Shiro is dead. Shiro is dead. Shiro is dead._

However, what he says next echoes loud in clear and before he knows it he’s snapping his head up with a snarl.

“The Garrison is deeming the mission pilot error-“

Iverson’s voice forming the words “pilot error” makes him smart. The fire in him, always burning, always warm, flares, and engulfs him. He wants to burn everything.

“Shiro would never-!”

“Cadet!” Iverson barks, eyes narrowed. But then he softens, voice falling as he rubs a hand over his beard with a sigh. His voice, when he speaks next, is low and gentle.

He’s never talked to _Keith_ like that before. He hates it already.

“It doesn’t matter what we think, Cadet. Tomorrow morning the Garrison is going to release that news, with that explanation, and you and I are going to have to accept it.”

But Keith doesn’t want to. And he doesn’t want Iverson’s gentle tone and soft words of comfort.

“You’re wrong.” He sneers, baring his teeth and growling lowly in his throat. “And I’m going to find him.”

He stands up, doesn’t bother to salute or be dismissed, yanks his chair back, and leaves the room with a slam of the door.

No one stops him and no one calls after him and somehow, that makes it hurt more.

* * *

The weeks blend together.

He stops eating, stops sparring in the gym, and eventually, stops doing his homework too.

He still shows up to classes though, the picture of Shiro and him on his nightstand urging him to stumble out of bed and into the overly crowded halls. He doesn’t bring his bag anymore though and he barely bothers with the uniform. He doesn’t even check the mirror before he leaves. Keith knows he looks like a mess, feels like one, and he doesn’t care who notices.

Whispers and looks follow him everywhere, more than they already had been before. Instructors and students alike look heavily upon him. He sees pity in some of them and it makes his teeth hurt with how hard he clenches his jaw. If they were truly sorry for him, they’d stop or maybe they would have started before it had been too late. As it is, he snaps at half of them when the stares linger too long.

He isn’t their charity case either.

The other looks hurt more though. The ones that hold contempt and a kind of bitter, hungry victory. They see Keith and bike back, feral in their own kind of ways. He sees these looks in James and his merry band of friends. In the group of cargo pilots in his chemistry class. In the few officers that always hated him. Those looks tell Keith they’re waiting, waiting for him to fall just like Shiro, and he has to grip his hands just a little bit more.

But it all comes to a head after a particularly long simulation in flight class. They had flown separately for this one, testing their endurance and capabilities to rely on their own instincts. Keith, who practically lived for these kinds of tracks, excelled at it and when Montgomery and Iverson had given him his +A with little critique, he had felt Shiro’s proud grin against his neck, beating against his pulse like molten fire.

But where Keith burned bright, others did not. Others like James, who panicked when the flight path was disrupted.

They crowd against him in the hall, after the class is over, and one of them shoves his shoulder so James can push him into the wall.

Keith lets them, gripping the strap of his bookbag hard. He’s grateful he brought it for once, if only for the thin lifeline it gives him. He promised Shiro no more fights, that he’d walk away and keep his fists to himself, and even if he doesn’t know when he’ll see him next, that doesn’t mean he’s going to break it.

“I know you’re cheating.” Griffin sneers, pressing closer.

Keith snorts. “You literally saw me flying the sim. There’s no way I could have.”

Griffin’s frown just gets heavier and he drops his hand on Keith’s shoulder. It burns and makes him tense. _He_ wasn’t allowed to touch him, especially not there.

“You could if you’ve already flown it before. Don’t tell me Montgomery isn’t sneakin’ you in for practice runs at night.” 

Keith grips the backpack strap harder. It’s always the same shit with them, always about Keith somehow cheating by getting special time in with the sims. First it was with Shiro and now they’ve just moved on to instructors. It makes him roll his eyes.

“She’s not because she barely tolerates me.” And it’s true because as much as she likes having him in her advanced pilot theory class, she hates how self-assured he is in his capabilities. The word arrogant rings off her lips just as much as the students. “I’m exactly where you are at night: in my damn bed.”

One of the other guys snorts and chuckles out a laugh. It’s low and ugly. “Oh you’re in someone’s bed alright.”  
  


He stills and cuts his gaze over. “What are you trying to say?”

The guy rolls his eyes back. “Really Kogane? Like everyone didn’t know?”

“Know what?”  
  
James jerks his shoulder, making him look back over, and rolls his eyes. “That you were fucking him for favors, dude. I know that’s how you got into the Garrison. After that stunt you pulled with his car?” He snorts. “There’s no other way they’d let you in otherwise.”

Keith tenses and the wave crashing over him is one he doesn’t know how to define. His mouth dries and he wets his lips with his tongue, so angry at the insinuation that Shiro, who was so good, so kind, would ever take advantage of him like that . . . . That Keith himself would ever resort to that, just to get into this damn school . . . he can’t believe it.

No. Actually he can. At least about himself. Keith knows the rumors that follow him everywhere he goes and most of them aren’t even that far off. It’s true he’s got a record, though it was expunged when he turned eighteen last month. Shiro and he had fought very hard for that. But the fact that the record ever existed, that James Griffin knew him before he came here, knew the kind of person he had been, and that everyone knew who he still was, meant all people were ever going to see was him starting fights, finishing them, and constantly dragging himself out of punishments. 

Keith knows nobody likes him, knows that all these guys see is his scabbed knuckles and angry scowl, remembers how Keith stole Shiro’s car when they first met and knows that that’s all he is ever going to be to them. A delinquent, one that shouldn’t even be here.

And if Keith is crazy enough to attack people and steal shit, why wouldn’t he be the kind to fuck the professors for a good grade?

He snorts aloud, despite himself, because _obviously_ those things are linear. But to suggest Shiro capable of such?

That he won’t allow.

He shoves back against James’s hand, not enough to hurt him but enough to dislodge it, and pushes his face into his. “Shiro _never_ touched me. I got here on my _own_ merit, Griffin. You out of everyone should know that.”

Because James and Keith have known each other long enough by now that Griffin knows Keith doesn’t go anywhere he doesn’t want to be and he saw Keith fly that day, knows what he was already good at. All of this here? At this fancy-ass school? It was just a simple step up from it and just as easy.

Griffin scowls down at him, noses almost touching. “I know who you are, Kogane.” He moves closer. “Just like I know you shouldn’t even be here.”

_Here?_ Keith wants to ask. To scoff. What’s even _here_ anymore?

“Your parents knew that too.” Griffin smirks, and Keith glares at him, that familiar edge clouding his thoughts as the all too familiar taunt rushes past those stupid lips. “So did Shiro, it seems.”  
  


With a growl, he shoves Griffin off of him, knocking into him so hard the boy hits the other wall. A group of passing cadets skid to a halt around him, one yelping at the motion, but James is already standing back up to meet him in the middle.

Griffin waves off his friend and pulls his fist back to throw it, but Keith catches the lousy thing, turning his arm out and kneeing him in the gut.

Fists fly in a blur. The fight feels too far away for him to really notice, for him to truly be a part of it. Everything moves so quickly, so slowly, and he doesn’t understand anything but the blood rushing in his ear, the sting in his hands, and the look on the boy’s faces as he shoves them away and snaps his teeth.

Keith’s been fighting for a long time. It makes sense that it’s all his body knows how to do now.

An officer grabs him around the waist, pulling him against their chest, but Keith’s not going to be stopped, not now. Not after they’ve opened this up inside him.

He’s never going to get that door closed again and that vindictive, feral part of him doesn’t want to.

He rests back, jutting an elbow out and hitting it against a broad chest. The man grunts and he pulls his head forward before snapping it back as hard as he can, crashing their skulls together. The officer drops him with a shout and while Keith feels his own responding ache of protest on the back of his head, he isn’t done yet.

Vaguely he hears someone shout, maybe someone says his name, but he doesn’t care as all he sees is bright white, clouding in around James and his friends as he shoves one aside, kicks another in the shin, and tackles Griffin to the floor.

The tile squeaks loudly under their bodies and Keith pushes them another foot with his planted feet, caging Griffin in against the floor and pressing his forearm across the front of his chest, over pokey collarbones.

He doesn’t remember pulling his fist back, doesn’t remember slamming it into the side of Griffin’s face until he sees blood and his knuckles are rubbed raw. This is familiar, this he can handle, and as he punches him again, spit flying out between his teeth as he hisses and bares them at the pompous boy, he feels a bit of pride, of nervous energy feeding into him, making his shove the boy back down harder when he tries to buck Keith off.

Eventually, someone manages to pull him off though, and this time he lets them, satisfied now that he’s gotten a taste, that Griffin is looking at him like that, likes he’s sorry and he knows better and like he knows he pushed too far. But the blood on his face, on Keith’s hands, doesn’t take any of it back and so he snaps his teeth again and the arms holding him tighten, shoving him away.

“That’s enough!” Iverson barks and Keith doesn’t know when he got here, but whoever is holding onto him shifts him to face the commander, jerking Keith’s mostly limp body to face him.

Iverson’s face is stern and angry, red hot with rage as he glares down at Keith, down at Griffin, lips pulled back in his own answering snarl. Keith doesn’t feel the burn of his anger like Griffin does though, who flinches and shakily stands up, avoiding his eyes. Now that the fight has settled and his blood is slowing all he feels is this terrible emptiness, eating away at his consciousness and filling his body like concrete.

None of this matters at the end of the day. It doesn’t bring him back.

“I thought you were over this petty cockfighting, Kogane!” Iverson snaps and Keith’s jaw twitches as he clenches it, staring levelly back at the man with a petulant glare. Still, he says nothing and so the older man goes on.

“If you think this is how you can behave here, then I’ve got bad news for you, Cadet.” He continues and Keith watches as the muscle in the man’s throat jumps. “I’ve had it up to here with your insubordination. We’ve given you some leniency after what’s happened but this?” He snorts. “This is too far.”  
  
Keith grits his teeth and breathes sharply through his nose, feeling the arms around him weaken and drop, sure that he’s going to listen to this dribble.

“Officer Shirogane saw something in you,” Iverson says, as if Keith needed the reminder “Something great. If this is how you repay his memory, it’s pretty lousy.” He leans in, just a little, and drops his voice. “It’s not going to bring him back, son.”  
  


Keith can hear the sympathy in his voice, can see it in his eyes, but all he hears playing in his head, like on a loop, is the words _son_ and _not coming back._

His whole life that’s all anyone’s ever said to him and he’s so fucking tired of hearing it.

“Don’t let his mistake become yours.”

His chin snaps up at that and the breath leaves him in a hiss as he glares daggers at the man. _How dare he-! Who does-?_ Shiro wasn’t like Keith, he wasn’t a fuck up and he’d never crash the mission, would never miss the landing, and for Iverson to not only suggest so but keep doing it-!

Keith doesn’t remember punching Iverson in the face either. Doesn’t feel the blood coating his knuckles anew. He sees the man fall back, onto his back on the ground, clutching his eye, and he feels the air in his lungs escape him like pained whines. Someone comes up to help the Commander, yelling for medical help, but before any hands can even think to grab him, he’s already running, already shoving someone out of the way.

He can’t stay here, especially now. Keith knows what happens if you even think of assaulting an officer, and he wants to scoff, wants to scream and cry because Iverson’s wrong.

There’s nothing about Keith Shiro would be proud of now.

* * *

He runs to the desert.

Beneath him, the hoverbike hums with life, motor purring loudly as he shifts and turns it around bends and corners. The sun paints the sky in oranges and bright reds, hungry with life. Not a single lazy cloud mars it and he feels its heat against his already damp skin.

Keith’s hands shake, just slightly, as he goes around a cluster of rocks and his breath hitches in his throat as he angles the bike a little more to the right, revving the engine harder.

He hasn’t been out here since Shiro left for Kerberos. Racing through the desert didn’t feel the same alone. Still, this land has been his for as long as he can remember and it’s not Shiro but his father that guides him to where he needs to be, an echo of direction and sights running through him.

After over an hour of driving, dust billowing behind him the whole time, he slows to a stop, the shack finally before him.

He hasn’t been here in even longer.

It’s been years since he’s last seen it. Keith wasn’t even certain if she would still be standing. Last he remembers of it, their house had been burning in the distance, nothing left to show of it now, and his father had been gone. He hadn’t been allowed to venture back to it, not even to retrieve what little of his was left inside, and so his heart stutters looking at it.

His hands shake even more and his throat tightens as he looks at it longer.

Keith never thought he would come back but maybe that’s because he never thought he would make it to eighteen.

He still hasn’t in all fairness but with only a month left to go, he feels her calling and knows he won’t be going anywhere else. They can search all they want but he won’t let them take him back to the home now. Not after everything.

The shack’s a little slanted with wear and age and the porch steps creak loudly as he walks up them, feet heavy with hesitance. The door opens with a whine, the lock long broken and the key long lost anyway. Dust and sand greet him, filling his lungs, and he coughs as his eyes water, throat hacking it back up.

Waving a hand around to uselessly get rid of it, he looks around.

Keith’s pa hadn’t used the shack very much but his presence still lingers here, like a ghost even now. Keith himself hadn’t been allowed in very often and he feels like he’s going to get scolded or stopped with a gentle hand any second but nothing comes, just like always.

He marks the dirty wood floors with his footsteps, leaving prints everywhere, as he crosses across what he’ll loosely call a sitting room.

In the corner is his father’s old surveillance equipment, radar that his dad would stand behind for hours, tinkering with and turning as if he were looking for something. A ratty, dirty old sofa sits beneath the broken windows, sun-bleached. Bugs fly about it and Keith is sure something more rests inside it. A bookshelf lines the wall next to the equipment, chalked full of his father’s discarded Garrison books. Pa had quit the academy long before it was cool to be there, happier being a firefighter than an engineer, but he still kept the books his parents had lovingly bought him before they died.

He wonders what his grandparents would think of him, what his pa would think of him if they saw Keith now.

Walking into the next room over finds an outdated kitchen, if you could call it that. There’s no refrigerator or dining room table but there’s a cabinet and a countertop with a single sink, dirt and grime making it look disgusting. The spiders walking around raise that bar too. Swallowing roughly, he walks out of there too. Keith doesn’t bother walking through the back door of the shack. He already knows the only thing back there is a tap for the hose and a tree that somehow still survives to this day. Everything else in this desert had died, his pa included, but the tree still stands.

Walking back into the sitting room, he crosses to the corner where a wooden ladder step stands and another door is tucked beside it. He opens the door, revealing both a bathroom and another door. The bathroom is in a similar state to the rest of the place, filthy and old, and he opens the door to reveal the generator.

It’s absolutely covered in dirt and dust and weeds poke out of it but when Keith runs a hand over it and flips the switch, it still hums to life, albeit with a bit of difficulty. A spark doesn’t even fly up to hiss at him and he gives a shaky laugh.

At least there’s one good thing.

He turns the generator back off before closing the door back behind him. There’s no use for electricity tonight and with little money to his name, he can’t afford it anyway. If he’s going to live here, he’ll have to head into town for supplies and he’ll need it all then.

Back inside, he steps to the ladder and climbs it with wobbly legs. It creaks beneath his weight too but stands sturdier than the steps, allowing him up the stairs into the slightly big attic.

There’s a little window up here, broken and dusty and wasps fly around its shards. A stack of boxes rests in the corner, untouched for years, but the rest of the floor is bare. He’ll sleep here, he thinks, once he gets a bed.

The sun is glaring through the open hole in the wall and he climbs back down the ladder with a sigh. Daylight is running and if he wants to have a place to rest tonight, he better start cleaning it out now. Better to find a scorpion now than in the dark underneath him.

Sighing, he runs his hands over the dried walls. Restoring the shack will be a lot of work but at least it’ll keep his mind off of things.

He looks out over his shoulder. There’s a buzzing under his skin, like a nervous energy that makes his fingertips twitch and his stomach unsteady. His eyes dart south, where he knows the caves are nestled.

His pa had taken him out there often when he was younger, with their light backpacks and half-empty water bottles. Keith remembers his dad whistling and singing old country songs as they trekked through the walls and high cliffs, reaching out to touch the layers upon layers of stone.

Shiro had been so impressed that Keith knew the desert so well, had been delighted when Keith showed him hidden alcoves and tiny lakes. It had made a warm, happy feeling of contentedness settle over him, cheeks blushing with a pride he didn’t understand.

He never told either of them that he wasn’t following the same paths as them. His pa had never carried a map either, had just walked around in directions Keith knew the guides would never approve of. But some days, when his father would want to go around the lake, towards the west bend of their desert, Keith would insist on going forward. His pa never questioned him on it, never asked how Keith just seemed to know how to get to their destinations without any guidance. It didn’t matter which direction they went, Keith could always tell his pa how to get to the caves or back home.

The energy had been so loud back then, but Keith had also been less afraid of what it meant. Hadn’t thought too much about it. But if his pa’s knowing gaze had been worth anything, the man had never worried himself over it.

Still. Keith knew it was weird he didn’t need a map of the place. He had them of course, every Garrison orienteering class got one, and Shiro always insisted on bringing one just in case, but he just didn’t use it.

The hum in his head knew the way, even if Keith himself couldn’t describe it.

This close to the desert as he was, just miles off of the caves, made the humming louder, more pressing. It felt urgent against his skull, like a needy child asking for snacks, and his body twitched with the want to follow it.

Younger Keith always did, after all. Always managed to convince his pa to take him outside to chase it.

But older Keith knew better, knew chasing things like magic and instincts never got him anywhere. He took one last look over, bit his lip, and walked away.

He had to go to the store.

* * *

A trip to the closest corner store and many dollars less, Keith returns with bags of cleaner and basic supplies. He forewent buying actual food this time, knowing that with the state the shack was in he was more likely to lose it or be ravaged by whatever the hell was lingering within and outside his old home. A sandwich from the deli would have to do for a little. He can’t afford to spend too much anyway, the old savings account would only last him so long.

Who knows how long he’ll be out here. Probably forever.

With nowhere to really put them, he drops the bags by the front door. There’s so much to do, so many holes he can see he’ll have to fix. There’s next to no furniture and even though he has a sofa, it’s probably the worst thing in the room. So he deals with it first.

He pulls at the hairband on his wrist, gathering his hair into a tiny, low ponytail. Shiro had always teased him whenever he wore it like this, constantly poking at his uncharacteristically bared neck and tickling the split ends of his hair. His heart aches now just thinking about it. If the Garrison is right (which they’re not!) he’s never going to feel those fingers ever again.

Keith leaves the front door open, propping it with his bags as he bends down to pull out the box of trash bags. He didn’t buy a can to hold them but that’s alright, he can hold it himself or just leave it on the floor until he goes out again. 

He pulls on a pair of thick gloves, stepping toward the sofa. The old yellow thing is stained heavily and just covered with filth, another death to time. He hesitates for a second but figures it’s best to just rip it off like a bandaid. He picks up the first cushion, jamming it into the trash bag quickly. There’s sand in its wake but thankfully, he doesn’t spot any kind of critters. Lifting up the next one reveals much the same.

It’s possible that, over time, even the desert forgot about this place, abandoning it too. Maybe it had once housed creatures, as the presence of old, dried feces suggests as does the dried bones under the sofa, but from what he can tell, there’s nothing in the couch at least.

But he’s back now and Keith never forgot.

The frame of the sofa is long but light. He vaguely recalls his pa buying it at a flea market, spending no more than $30 on it. With a huff, he drags it through the front door and onto the creaky old porch. The steps bend under his feet and the weight of his cargo but thankfully don’t snap. Eventually, if he doesn’t want to break anything, he’s going to have to buy some wood and fix them up but that’s a problem for his future self.

He leaves the bones of the sofa outside in the dirt, promising himself he’ll rent a truck soon to get absolutely everything he needs, both out of the way and back here. But for now, he returns back inside.

Sweat slides down his neck and some pebbles his forearms but he ignores it, not even bothering to wipe them away. Only more will gather in its wake, too quick for him to care. A fan would be nice too.

He grabs a hold of his new broom, pushing the dustpan away with his foot for now. Returning outside, he swipes the porch boards. He doesn’t need to do too much of a great job, since he’ll have to redo this anyway, but he makes sure to get most of the dust and dirt up and into a small pile by the steps. He props the broom up by the door and steps back inside once more.

He goes for his father’s surveillance equipment first. More dust clings to it than anything else and he swats away a small spider crawling over it. He unplugs everything and drags a hand over the top monitor. His father had stood by these for hours, a hand resting atop them as he looked longingly towards the stars out the window. The few times Keith had followed his father inside he had sat on the sofa, before it rotted away, and colored away on sun-bleached pages with too waxy crayons.

It feels like a lifetime away, and that’s probably because it was. His father’s life anyway. Keith had been so different back then, things had been much better. They had been poor but at least he hadn’t been alone. He would give anything to hear his father’s voice again, to feel his scratchy stubble against his cheeks, to hear his laugh pressed into his hair.

But life wasn’t fair and no matter what, he wouldn’t ever get that again, so he shoved the feelings away and went back to the task at hand.

Carefully, he lifts the first box up, mindful of the power cord as it drags along the floor as he walks back outside to set the thing down on the now much cleaner porch. He does this for the next minutes until all the equipment is outside and away from the dirt. He’ll have to clean all of it, get inside to make sure it all still works, but if he remembers how to use it correctly (and he should), then it’ll be useful in maybe finding Shiro.

The only thing left in the main room now is the bookshelf and after visiting upstairs to grab an empty box, he places all the books inside. They’re old things that Keith never even saw his father read, much less pick up. He supposes there was no need to though. A few classic fiction books are mixed in that surprise him and he stares at them longer than necessary. Maybe he can read them too. 

He brings that box outside after he’s done but keeps the bookshelf inside where it is.

He brings the broom back inside but keeps it by the door in favor of rifling through his groceries. Digging through his plastic bags until he finds the cheap surface cleaner and his pack of washcloths, he returns and wipes the shelves down. It’s a mind-numbing chore, one that keeps him busy but distant enough that he doesn’t really feel like he’s here. He just drags his hand over it in repeated swipes, watching dust fall off and dirty his rag. 

Shiro had hated cleaning, always whining every time Keith made him get up and actually put things away. It had always amused Matt to see the Golden Boy be the filthy gremlin of the two and Keith be the Mom Friend that had a place for everything. Maybe it’s years of foster care and an endless list of chores that make him like that, as his pa hadn’t been much for order either, but he tries not to psychoanalyze himself too much.

It’s hard not to here though. It’s been a while since he felt this alone. Even at the Garrison, with Matt and Shiro gone on Kerberos, he still felt them. He had known they would be coming back soon, that he was just waiting. But now, now all he has are muted news stories, empty saved voicemails on his phone, and the heavyweight of their absence, muddy with uncertainty.

It’s like his dad all over again but somehow worse. Before, he hadn’t understood very well. It changed everything about him, made him a different person, someone he’s not sure his pa would like, but this? Shiro had taken one look at Keith and his rough personality and made him softer. Keith knew who he could be, who he became with Shiro, and he feared what he would become without him.

He didn’t want to lose himself, to lose the last bit of good he had inside him, but Keith knew how he wore grief and it made it hard to think he’d be anyone else but a disappointment all over again.

Look at him, he’s already lost the Garrison. How much lower can he get?  
  


He finishes wiping the bookshelf clean, standing up on shaky legs to retrieve his broom once more.

He sweeps around it, doing a better job here than he had earlier. He’d rather only do this one once. When enough space is clean, he slides the bookshelf over to clean underneath it and in the corner. The floor is now mostly clean, save for some spots that’ll care a little more care. They can wait until later though.

Keith looks up at the walls. There’s a lot of sun and water damage on them. Cobwebs linger from pretty much every bit of the ceiling and he’s glad now that he bought the duster with the adjustable handle, despite it being stupidly overpriced. He sweeps his dirt pile close to where he’s about to make a mess and goes to fetch the duster.

Swiping at the cobwebs, he thinks about what all he has left to do.

It’s going to take a while, but he hopes to get most of the cleaning done today. The small kitchen and bathroom seem mostly like surface-level problems, though he’ll have to check the pipes before actually using them. He’ll have to buy stuff for them too on his next trip into town, like a shower curtain, a towel, maybe some actual dishes.

He’ll have to fix the broken windows too. Those and the steps he’s dreading the most, as they’ll cost more than anything as lost as there’s nothing too bad with any of the maintenance. He’s got an idea to board them up with the wood from the old sofa for now though so he can push it off for a little bit at least.

Keith had spotted enough holes to want to check under the shack too. He’s got a whole bag full of pest control items to set up and spray later for it. Maybe there will be enough wood leftover to board those up too, if he’s lucky.

He tackles the windows next, figuring it best to get those fixed first in case it rains anytime soon. The weather hadn’t predicted it and he doesn’t feel or smell an approaching storm in the air, but he isn’t taking any chances.

Grabbing his new hammer, he steps back outside and kicks the sofa. He can hear something scurrying around under his steps, likely some kind of rodent, but he ignores them for now. There’s no harm. He bends and pries thin planks off, hissing when some springs jump out and scratch his hands. A cut bleeds lightly but he ignores that too, wanting to get all the wood out that he can right now.

For the next few hours, he boards up holes and windows and goes back to cleaning. The sun sets as he does and it’s on it’s last drags as he wipes the sink down, the last thing to really clean. Mosquitoes fly around from the open door, drawn in by the light he finally turned back on when it was getting too dark to really see well. Sweat rolls down his skin and he’s panting from all the work but it burns right on his body.

The shack is mostly liveable now. He’s got it as clean as he can get it for now, all his traps are set and he doused pretty much every inch of the place in bug spray repellents. He had been coughing for an hour after but it’s definitely going to be worth it. Eyeing the mosquitoes makes his nerves itch though and he considers buying a light for the porch.

He shuts the door with finality after the sink is fully clean. The lock sticks a little and he expects it to be a pain when he wants to open it next. There’s a new one in his last grocery bag but it’s going to have to wait until tomorrow.

With a long sigh, he spins around. The shack looks so much better now that someone’s put some care in it. It’s horribly empty, more so now than it had been when he first came. He’s brought the radar equipment back in, and it sits back in its spot against the wall, as does the now restocked bookshelf. He hates looking at all the space program books though and a familiar anger lights up his insides, making his fist clench, and so he turns away from it.

The kitchen is completely bare. All the dirt is in the trash bag he has stuffed full, waiting by the door. There’s nothing in this room. No dish soap or containers of food and he ignores the pang of hunger trying to get acknowledged. He’ll go shopping soon when he feels more awake and ready for life again.

The bathroom is in a similar barren state. He had found a scorpion in there earlier, pandering in the bathtub that took him almost an hour and a whole box of magic erasers to clean alone. It had been an adventure full of cursing to get the thing out safely.

Upstairs, the room is cleaned up, with the boxes shoved under his boarded-up tiny window, so the only thing left for him to do today is find a spot to sleep.

He’s got no bed, probably won’t for a little bit, and the only thing he really has to his name besides this empty shack, is the bag he managed to swipe on his way out of the Garrison. Inside, it holds some clothes, some of Shiro’s old belongings, and a few sanitary products. He uses those to freshen up a little, knowing it won’t be until tomorrow at the earliest that he’ll even be able to take a shower.

He chooses to sleep upstairs. He doesn’t know if he got all the holes closed up downstairs and at least upstairs it’s unlikely he’ll wake up to a snake in his face. He sits against the wall, sliding the duffle bag close and yanking the zipper open. He digs around for it, ignoring things he’d rather not see right now, and pulls out a faded grey hoodie.

A large orange Garrison G splays across the front and he pulls it over his head. Instantly the smell of cheap cologne and vanilla shampoo greets his nose and he has to fight back tears. The hoodie, Shiro’s hoodie, is way too large on his thin, tiny frame, and he knows if he stood up right now, it would probably drop to around his knees.

His hands shake as he bundles his red leather jacket up into a ball, he lays flat on the hard tiled floor. He curls up in the corner of the room, the generator not providing as much heat as he’d like, and rests his head against the coat.

Outside, the wind makes the shack creak and he hears the distant howls of coyotes. A bug smacks against the boarded-up window. Shivering, his bones feel heavy and his body empty.

Quiet and dark like this, the loneliness creeps in and for the first time that day, he lets it come. Welcomes it.

Today, he lost everything. There’s no way he’ll be able to go to the Garrison, all his hopes of flying someday gone, just like that. He feels the sting of his knuckles now still, the ready to scab over cuts smarting with the ghost of his final punch. He’s so stupid, so foolish. He wasted Shiro’s kindness, ruined the gift he had helped make for him, and now he has nothing. He has nothing to show for Shiro’s selflessness and now he’s gone and all Keith has is this pathetic life again and the ghost of his best friend, dead to a world that’s already ready to forget about him. To blame him for its failures. 

The hot slide of tears down his cheeks and the burning of holding back sobs hitch in his throat and it’s the last thing he feels before exhaustion pulls him under into a restless sleep.

  
  
  


_He’s dreaming._

Keith knows he is because for one, he’s not in the shack, and two, Shiro is with him.

All around him the walls are dark grey with purple lights casting bright down upon them. The ceilings are tall and high and when he tips his head up all he sees is more greys and shadows, with no end in sight as it bleeds into darkness.

He’s sitting on the floor, the metal cool beneath his bare legs. Somehow, Dream Keith is wearing the same thing he went to bed in, which was just tiny shorts and an overly large hoodie he may or may not have stolen from Shiro. The ground is hard and cold and he shivers as goosebumps rise.

He shouldn’t be able to feel cold in a dream and yet, that’s not what matters when Shiro is leaning against the wall next to him.

He looks different, like a twisted in between version of the boy Keith remembers and the feral creature that haunts his halls of the waking world. He’s bigger and broader, wearing odd clothes. Like everything else, a purple crop covers Shiro’s top half, a black skin tight suit cladding the rest of him. His chest is rising and falling rapidly as he pants in the open air, eyes closed and unseeing of Keith.

There’s white bleeding into his once dark bangs, like chalk, and a long gash is oozing profusely down his face. Blood slides down his cheeks, along his nose, and over his jaw, past his neck. Keith watches as more pools out and slides down, tainting him red even more, and he swallows thickly around his tongue.

“Shiro,” He whispers, turning his body to face his friend and refraining from touching him. _This isn’t real,_ he reminds himself and yet this Dream Shiro flinches at the sound of Keith’s voice, eyes opening to latch immediately onto his own.

He looks right at Keith and instantly jerks back, putting enough distance between them to throw his arm out. Keith stares at it, frowning at the way his hand shakes, arm trembling as wide grey eyes stare back at him. They dart frantically around the room, as if he’s confused.

“K-Keith?” Shiro asks and _god_ that’s his _voice_ . He’s heard it a few times now, between drunken tumbles and fevered thoughts, but the way it comes out now, all hoarse and surprised, makes him want to cry harder than he already has been. Seeing Shiro like this, acting like _him_ , makes him sick.

This isn’t real, Keith thinks again, but the way Shiro is looking at him and the way the floor feels, how dark and wet the blood looks, makes it _feel_ real.

“You’re supposed to be dead.” Keith blurts out, because for some reason that’s all he can think about. Whatever fucked up sickness he had must be playing tricks on him in his sleep too because god he can even _smell_ Shiro right now.

Shiro snorts but doesn’t drop his hand, still holding it out between them, poised and ready for a fight Keith will never give him. “The Empire sure thinks so.” Shiro narrows his eyes at him, lips pulling back with a bared snap.

“Did they send you?” His eyes twitch, once more looking around the room.

Keith shrinks in on himself, pressing closer against the wall. He has no idea who the empire is or why dream Shiro is asking things like that. It’s weird, but so is the way he’s looking at him, like Keith is his own warped demon.

“I’m dreaming.” Keith says out loud to remind himself, because Shiro’s look is too sharp and barbed for him to handle. Too angry. Shiro’s never been mad at him before, not like this.

The man looks back at him, silent and still in a way that makes him nervous. “Dreaming.” He repeats slowly. They stare at each other and Shiro lowers his hand an inch. “We’re dreaming.” He continues before nodding raptly. “ _I’m_ dreaming.”

It’s a weird thing for him to say, since this is definitely Keith’s dream and not Dream Shiro’s, but if it gets him to stop looking at him like that then Keith will take it.

“Yes.” Keith says as he shifts uneasily. His thighs tremble with how cold the room is.

Shiro says nothing for awhile, just settles back down against the wall with a loud sigh that Keith feels in his own bones. He lowers his arm and looks away, towards the empty corner on the other side of the room. Keith takes the time to study him some more.

Even in a dream, Keith feels the air leaving his lungs. This isn’t the feral clone of Shiro that growls and grins at him in the mirror, isn’t a nightmare, but he’s so close to one that Keith scoots closer to the wall to be away. Because in what dream of his would Shiro ever be hurt? Blood is still dripping from the large gash across his face, still staining the front of his shirt, and Shiro just pants through it like it’s nothing, like Keith doesn’t know he’s got to be in considerable pain right now.

Who hurt him? Then he remembers Shiro’s words of an empire. _What_ hurt him?

“I’m sorry.” Shiro says suddenly, his voice loud in the previously silent room and it makes Keith jolt and look up at him. Shiro is still looking at the corner but like he knows Keith is staring, he continues. “You’re not even here but _god_ , Keith, I’m so sorry.”

Keith sniffs loudly and adjusts his legs to slide a little closer to him. “Why?” Shiro has no reason to apologize to him. He’s done nothing wrong, never has.

Shiro tips his head back, hitting it against the wall. “I promised I’d come back.” He says hollowly, voice low and empty. Keith shivers with it. “I don’t even know how long it’s been.” He goes on to say.

Keith closes his eyes. _Five months._ He wants to say. Five months since the Kerberos mission was deemed a failure and the crew died with it. He hasn’t seen him in longer, almost a year now, and the numbness of those words makes him stare at Shiro hard.

“I’ll see you soon.” Keith says instead, because even in a dream he can’t make Shiro sad, doesn’t want to see him like this, feeling guilty over not being back home. It’s not your fault, he doesn’t say. He knows Shiro knows that. “I’ll find you.”

Shiro looks over at that, the look on his face strange and too hard for Keith to try and make out. The look softens though the more he looks at him until finally, Shiro smiles, sad and tiny as it is.

“You probably will, won’t you?”

Keith squares his shoulders and leans forward. “ _Always_. I’ll get you back.”

The same strange look crosses his face again as Shiro turns himself more to look at Keith, away from the cold corner of his wall. “You’re always the best dream, Keith.” He says and his heart skips a beat.

Before he can respond though there’s a lurch and a singing in his ear and then he’s blinking the darkness away.

He wakes with a jolt, sitting up in bed and looking around at the darkness surrounding him. Keith swallows and immediately tastes cool, fresh water.

_Find him,_ a voice echoes in his head. _Find me._

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Keith fixes up the shack.

He clears all the snakes and scorpions out, disgustingly collects and disposes of dead mice and their empty bones. Sprays more bug repellent and sets more harmless traps.

He closes all the holes up officially and gets the pipes and generator back into a stable enough condition. Keith even goes back into town to get rid of the sofa, trading it at the yard for $5, and buys the last of what he needs when the old man at the gas station offers to let him borrow his truck.

It’s a hit to his bank account, one that makes him clench his jaw with unease, but he buys the window panes he needs, the supplies for the shack like a shower curtain and soap and more food, and even gets lucky enough to find some furniture. He gets a metal framed couch with grey and green cushions to put by the front window with a matching armchair, sheets to cover the sun out some, and uses some cinder blocks to prop up a used, mildly destroyed tabletop. The kitchen lacks a table or chairs, as he figures he can just eat on the sofa, but now has stocked cabinets. He buys a big metal tub and some string to use for a clothesline. 

The mattress is his most expensive purchase but he pairs it off with a cheap blanket and a single pillow, forgoing actual sheets and stuff for much later on in the future. He buys a set of linens for the bathroom though, knowing he can’t really be avoiding that one.

All his things go in cardboard boxes that he sets all around the shack. All the cleaning supplies rest in one under the sink. He makes a closet out of two of the boxes in the corner upstairs. His towels and shampoos go in one by the toilet. His tools go in another in the side shed with the hoverbike.

He uses the last things he bought right now, sitting in a rickety old chair on his front porch with an ice cooler by his feet. An open bottle of jack hangs from thin fingers by his side and he takes a swig from it, enjoying the burn as it slides down his throat. Technically, Keith is nowhere close to being old enough to buy the alcohol. He’s not even an adult. But this is the south and the town is small enough to recognize Keith as a local, as someone who belongs here, and maybe the cashier had recognized the tired, empty look on his face when he set the bottle down on the counter. He hadn’t asked for an ID, had just rung it up with Keith’s meager loaf of wheat bread and giant bottle of peanut butter, the only thing he’s bothering to eat right now.

They take care of their own down here, whatever that means.

Maybe they see a bit of his pa in him and it’s really pity that drives their kindness but Keith isn’t bothered enough to care.

The sun sets before him, painting the sky in bright oranges and muted yellows. Pink dashes through low clouds, not a hint of blue there at all. Condensation cools his fingers, wetting the tips, and he sighs as he lifts the bottle again to take another sip, smaller this time.

He and Shiro used to chase skies like this all the time. Those late afternoon drives seem so far away now, like a memory he’s already desperately trying to hold onto. But like the bottle, it’s too slippery for him to really grasp.

They would take the bikes out for hours, blowing up dust in their wakes, kicking up rocks and dry bones. He can hear their laughs in the wind, feel it in his gut with every deep gulp of whiskey, feel the burn of cut knuckles in his hands and throat.

Keith had looked forward to those hoverbike rides more than anything. It was the first thing he really let himself have. He fought it at first, not trusting Shiro’s offer of friendship, that someone like him could possibly like someone like Keith, but he longed for adventure, for the desert grounds he knew so well.

He grabbed ahold of Shiro’s offered hand that first night and never looked back and even now, he will never regret it.

Shiro was the color yellow, lighting up his darkest days and giving him even a semblance of color. And now that he was gone, Keith wasn’t sure he would ever see it again.

The alcohol tastes flat in his mouth as he takes a final swig, placing the lid back on with a heavy, silent sigh. He lets the bottle drop down below his feet, knocking against heavy, old dirty boots. The cooler stays empty, wet and cold.

Keith wishes he could have shown Shiro the shack, had maybe taken him out to look for it sooner. His mind has always known the way, the distance from the Garrison closer than some of their farther drives out were. It would have been nothing for him to take him here, show him the last of his childhood.

He imagines Shiro fixing the creaky porch step, large rough hands handling it well as Keith grabbed tins of paint from inside. The sun would beat down on their necks, like it always did, but they wouldn’t notice.

He tips his head back, feels the siding of the shack and the headrest of the rocker, and closes his eyes.

Shiro would have liked it here, he thinks. He was always looking for new places, hiding in little alcoves to talk to Keith in. Be it the school roof, the empty classroom in the west wing of the second floor, the shitty, barren bar in town, or the wide expanse of the surrounding desert. Keith imagines Shiro here, sitting next to him in his own rocker. He would paint it black or maybe an obnoxiously light purple, moving the rocker too fast so he can hear it squeak.

As the alcohol soaks his thoughts and brings him deeper, to a quieter place, a warmer place he’d rather be, he imagines Shiro reaching across the space between them to grab his hand, linking his too cold fingers. The sun would keep setting, like it is now, and Shiro would pull his hand to his lips, kissing his palm like it’s nothing, ignoring the howls starting in the distance.

But Shiro wasn’t here. Would never see this shack now. Keith would never feel his lips on his skin, never know the impressions of his kiss, and he clenches his jaw at the thought.

Shiro isn’t here. Keith is alone again. Like he was always meant to be.

He knew it was too good to be true. People like him, rotten and torn at the soul, insides too twisted up to be any semblance of normal, they didn’t get happy endings.

They got this. An empty shack in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to his name. Nothing to show his life had any meaning. Without Shiro, it didn’t.

He stays out there on the porch for another hour, long after the sun leaves him, and he ignores the desert chill settling over him.

Nothing is colder than he already feels anyway.

* * *

The days bleed together even more, now that he has enough alcohol to numb everything.

He stops going into town often, just buys enough in bulk that no one looks at him too long to be worried.

Most of his days are spent in the ratty bed upstairs, curled up in thin, moth-eaten sheets. Without a clock or calendar, he loses track of time. He doesn’t know the date, doesn’t know what day it even is, and he doesn’t care.

The days mean nothing to him now, he’s just waiting for them to come to an end.

The hunger kicks in the first day, an angry ache he manages to ignore. His limbs feel too heavy to move, body not wanting to go anywhere. He just rolls over, kicks his sheet off his legs, and curls his face into his pillow, breathing in the dry scent of his laundry soap.

His room is painted with the colors from outside and it’s through them he watches the day go by, his room going from muted whites and yellows, to dark reds and oranges, until all he has left is the shadows of the world hanging around him, his only company the moon.

He’s not hungry the second day though, nor the third, only tired. He spends the fourth sleeping, not watching the colors or drowning himself with more whiskey. The bottle is empty anyway and he doesn’t want to grab another.

On the sixth day he feels hot.

He lays in the bed still, staring up at an unforgiving ceiling. Pale orange peeks through the glass, desert heat clings to his skin like a rough brand of soap. Sweat slides down his throat, down his back, over his chest. He’s bare now too, clothes too hot for him to care for. They lay at a pool by his feet, a tangled heap of the few he owns. Slowly, he realizes they’ll need to be cleaned soon if he wants to have anything to wear.

Does he?  
  


He kicks his sheet off and groans. His stomach hurts, his legs aching in a hollow kind of distant way. He feels a weird tingling in his toes, like a cramp is trying to come through but can’t find any room left within him.

Turning his head, he looks at his fingers. They twitch, like weeds in the wind, but he doesn’t feel them, barely sees them. They seem so far away too, like he’s watching someone else’s hands in slow motion. His thoughts feel heavy, like poured cough syrup, and he swallows.

A dry cough greets him instead, throat too dry from lack of water. After the first one more comes and he just keeps coughing, enough so that he curls inwards, feet sluggishly moving up so he can sit up. His back protests, like it’s too hard, and he coughs again.

His vision blurs, colors hazy, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes from the force of the coughs and when it clears again, Keith sees him.

Shiro. Sitting on the edge of his bed like he’s always been there.

He stops coughing, giving up one last weak one into a shaky fist. He keeps staring.

Shiro looks just like the last time he saw him, shoulders broad and hair dark as night. He’s frowning, looking out the window at the hot autumn sun. Not a hint of stubble mars his jaw, unlike Keith who’s starting to grow in a shadow. His brows are furrowed and then he turns to Keith and all the air leaves him, hitching in the back of his throat.

Grey eyes bore into his own, kind and warm. Alive.

“S-Shiro?” He asks, because he can’t believe it. There’s no way Shiro is here. He _can’t_ be.

But this Shiro smiles at him, just as he always did, and it sits genuinely on his face, not a hint of suspicion weighing it down. He blinks and holds the smile before turning back to the window.

“Go to sleep, Keith.” Shiro tells him, still smiling at the sun. Keith blinks and yawns, leaning back into his pillow. He keeps his eyes open though, not wanting to look away.

“Will you be here?” He asks, small. Smaller than he wants him to hear or know. “When I wake up?” Already exhaustion is tugging at him again and his eyelids are drooping, the last of him fighting to stay awake but losing.

Shiro turns back to him and he doesn’t know when, as he’s been looking this whole time, but his smile is sad now, like looking at Keith makes him want to cry.

Keith knows the feeling.

“Always.” He says and he falls, the last thing he sees being his friend.

* * *

  
  


Shiro isn’t there when he wakes and it makes his hands shake so much, anger and grief lighting his veins again, that he shoves himself out of the room and back downstairs.

He shoves a granola bar into his mouth, tearing into it with quick bites and a tight frown.

It was stupid of him. To think Shiro was here. It was impossible.

Keith turns the water hot, jerking the knob so hard it creaks loudly in protest. He yanks the shower curtain into place, away from the edge he left it at to clean the tub. His clothes pool in dirty heaps by his feet and he kicks them away too, anger still fresh on the tip of his tongue.

When he steps under the spray, he hisses from the heat. Steam rises around him, blistering his feet an angry, bright red, and he dances on the tiles a little to relieve them. As his shoulders start to ache, skin hot and just as red, he dips his head back with an open-mouthed gasp. Water gets in his eyes and he blinks what he can away before closing them entirely.

Seeing Shiro, even just a memory of him, lights up thoughts he’d rather ignore. Keith is no stranger to death, to grief, and it hurts just as much this time, as it did the first round. 

When his father died, he lost everything. The social workers came before he could even wrap around what had really happened. He remembers the funeral, their questions of “where’s your mom, honey?” as if a seven year old hadn’t asked that already and never been given an answer. Like him, they didn’t see the stars as a good enough response.

Firefighters all across the state had come out and he remembers the giant helmet, way too big for his head, being handed to him with the rest of his pa’s uniform. They ruffled his hair, spoke of family, but at the end of the day, Keith only had that burned coat, empty boots, and himself.

They didn’t want him just as no one else did.

With Shiro, Keith found purpose. Shiro gave him everything, helped him get to a place he thought his dad would finally be proud of. The fights had dwindled down, his knuckles scabbing over and healing with time and patience. His grades spiked, now that he had people that actually cared about his success looking at them. He had a home again, a friend, and for once, Keith thought there was something to look forward to, to hope for.

So, of course, the stars had to take that from him again.

With Kerberos launching and subsequently being deemed a failure, Keith lost everything. Shiro meant everything to him. He meant friendship, promise, and the future. For Keith, Shiro was all he ever wanted to be and more. All he ever longed for. He saw Keith and didn’t scoff, didn’t see his record but rather what he could do, his potential, and in turn, Shiro helped him see that for himself.

  
But now, in this lonely shack, all he saw was him.

Him and Shiro’s ghost, both lonely wandering souls, neither of whom should be here.

The water burned on his skin, as did the tears he let fall down his face, but nothing hurt more than knowing he’s exactly where he started. 

* * *

But once Keith sees him that first time, he doesn’t stop seeing him. Shiro starts visiting his dreams, his tall figure crowding every moment of his life, waking and not.

He sees him smiling, sees him tilting his head back in a laugh. He sees Shiro running in the gym, panting. He hears him singing in the car, hears him singing when Keith is in the shower. He feels him against his back, against his chest, body slick and hot from sweat. He feels the press of his mouth against his neck.

He feels the tears beginning to fall every time he wakes up, the ghost of him gone when reality settles back in.

He starts drinking more, only stopping to eat every now and then. And as the alcohol floods his system more and more, and he starts stumbling around his house, body too heavy for his thoughts to keep up, he sees Shiro there too. But this Shiro, the one that follows him into the waking world, is mangled and silent. He’s different from the one he remembers, the one in his dreams.

This Shiro is bloody and angry and feral, a truer version of the demons Keith knows.

His face becomes a ghost, a walking memory that can’t seem to leave him alone. Mocking him.

He brushes his teeth and Shiro is looking at him through the mirror behind him, blood running down his face, eyes blank. 

“Find me.” He hisses, face twisted and angry.

And when Keith jerks to spin around, he’s gone.

He’ll be laying next to him in his bed, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes wild as if he doesn’t see anything, as if something is following him too. And Keith can’t touch him, can’t reach out to comfort this warped version of his friend because his hands will slide right through and he’ll disappear. His words will be unheard.

He’ll see him in his kitchen, while he’s making a batch of coffee during one of his more lucid moments. He’ll just be standing there and Keith will watch as more and more white bleeds through his hair, staining his bangs pure, draining them raw.

He drinks more in hopes of not seeing him, not wanting to see his friend hurting like this, but the more he drinks the more he sees of him and it gets so bad, Keith doesn’t know which is worse.

Never seeing him at all, ever again, or seeing him tortured like this echo of his own soul.

When Keith closes his eyes that night, he opens them to a world too beautiful to be real.

The ground was yellow, like too pale grass but fluffier. Everything around him looked to be bathed in sunlight and gold, rich and luscious.

He sits up, running his palm over soft blades. It was the softest grass he’s ever touched, like an actual blanket, one far above his own. The wind whistled by, carrying a tune with it not all unlike a harp. Above him, wide, puffy white clouds stretched out, pinking bleeding through them like veins.

He felt a press against his arm, heard the intake of breath by his ear, and he knew before he looked who would be there.

Shiro was staring up at the sky with a look so awed, so fragile in it’s love, that it had Keith grasping to understand. He turned his gaze up too, to where stars were just beginning to peek through the golden gases, and when he felt that gaze shift, he forced himself to keep looking, to keep staring.

Frigid fingers found his in the grass and he tensed, not daring himself to move, to speak, as Shiro ran his fingertips over his knuckles, over his thin bones and the back of his hand. Keith swallowed when his hand was turned over, inspected, the feather touch of fingers grazing over his palm too gentle, too forgiving.

He looked. Shiro’s face was just as awed as when he was gazing up at the sky, just as soft as he looked at Keith. Like the creature stalking him, white was creeping into Shiro’s hair, teasing his bangs full, and a new scar ran along his chin, just on the underside of it. Thin, unnoticeable to anyone that wasn’t looking.

But Keith always was.

“Is this real?” He whispered, afraid to look away. Something about the colors around him seemed too sharp, the sensations too real, and the wild, awake look in Shiro’s face made him want to believe. “Are we really here?” _Are you?_

“For now.” Shiro said, his voice so loud, so heavy and real as he spoke that Keith felt a sob choke out from inside of him, tears already beginning to gather as his face crumpled.

He was so tired of being strong, of pretending to hold it in. He didn’t care if Shiro saw.

As Keith finally let the tears fall, hot and sticky down his face, hands came up to gather him close, and Shiro hugged him to his chest. His arms were strong and sturdy (bigger) around him and held him tightly, like he too was afraid Keith would vanish. Shiro held his face, pulling back just enough to cup his cheeks and pear at him. He said nothing as Keith continued to cry, continued to let tears fall over Shiro’s fingers, and stained his palms.

He just looked, staring at Keith like he was drinking him in, remembering every inch, every curve of his face, as if it were the last time he would ever see him.

“I miss you,” He confessed, voice racking raw and Shiro’s smile crumpled, his eyes dropping as the grief touched both of them. “I miss you so fucking much.”

“I miss you too, Keith.” Shiro said and _god_ that was his _name_. He brought his hands up, over Shiro’s own on his face, linking their fingers together tightly as they just sat there. “Every day.”

“I don’t know what to do,” He sniffled. “I don’t know how to find you.”

Shiro’s grip on him tightened just for a second as a look came over him before the older pushed it away. His gaze steadied. “You’ll figure this out.” Shiro told him. “You always do.”

He bit his lips, looking away and back again. “Are you safe?” he asked. The question seemed laughable. He knew, as much as he wanted to deny it, that somehow this Shiro, the sad one in his dreams, went with the bloody, angry one outside of them. He knew Shiro wasn’t, knew he was somewhere far, somewhere dark.

And yet, he had to ask.

“Safe as I can be.” The man promised and they smiled at each other, too grated to be soft and happy.

“I don’t want to wake up.” Keith says and it feels like a confession, like he’s expressing something deep and unknown within him. “I don’t want you to disappear.” _Again_.

“I don’t either.” Shiro whispers back, voice wobbly and shaky in a way Keith hasn’t heard in a long time. He pulls his hands away, turning them to keep the grip on Keith’s own, and gently pulls them down onto the grass, where Shiro sets Keith back on his chest.

Above them, the golden sky blinks back. A bird flies by, just as bright, as rich, and he swallows thickly. He smells the ocean on the air.

“Let's pretend,” Shiro continues after some time, running his hand over and down Keith’s side. He feels the press of fingers into his ribs. “Nothing outside of here is real. It’s the dream.”

He hums, fingers reaching up to card through the ends of Keith’s hair and he breathes him in, snuggling against his chest, against the rough purple top he doesn’t want to recognize.

“Do you remember,” He wets his lip and looks up. Shiro must feel his eyes on his and looks down at him, grey eyes gentle and so bright. He tries again. “Do you remember . . . when we danced in the rain and Iverson yelled at us?”  
  
He feels Shiro’s laugh through his chest, the man moving underneath him and making Keith tighten his grip on his shirt.

“He was so mad!” Shiro chuckled, squeezing his hip. “We got so sick after that too.”

Keith laughed with him. “Worst cold I ever had.”

Shiro smiled up, lips pointed as the memory played before him, lightening his face, and Keith toyed with his fingers, running them up and down in a slow pet over his heart. He felt the steady beat of it beneath his fingers, heard it under his ear.

“I wish we could dance again.” He confessed and he felt Shiro still. “I liked dancing with you.” It’s the closest he’s ever come to a confession and the words ring so loud in his ears.

A kiss is pressed atop his head. “We can dance here?” Shiro offers and Keith pulls back to look at him, at how he looks with the sun all around them, cloaking them in gold, in rich yellows, in bronze.

He rests his palm flat on his chest. It’s a tempting idea. He had loved spinning in the puddles with Shiro, had loved the heavy weight of his arms around him, guiding him through the steps as he twirled around and kicked up rain water. He can hear the echo of their laughs, loud and obnoxious as drops fell down their cheeks. The heavy press of their chests as Shiro brought them back together, suddenly quiet and morose as they just rocked together, slow as the rain continued to pour and lightning streaked the grey sky purple.

That was an old memory though and Keith longed to make new ones. To have that chance.

He settled back down against Shiro’s side. “No.” He whispered. “No, this is enough.”

* * *

Another week passes by and he barely notices. A lot of his nights are spent in the living room, swaying to a music only he can hear. The ghost of hands on his waist burns.

He goes into town again to pick up groceries, just bread and another jar of peanut butter. Some fruit and carrots that he can feel Shiro insisting him to eat.

He ignores the looks he gets. He knows he looks worse for wear. His clothes feel bigger, hanging off of his already small frame in dirty layers. He needs more soap too.

His face feels scratchy and red. The more Shiro haunts him, the harder it is to force back the tears and sobs he desperately wants to avoid and pretend won’t happen. 

He doesn’t buy any whiskey though, something the old cashier seems to approve of when he slips him a free candy bar into his single plastic bag.

It’s a slow drive back through the desert to his home. Keith guides the hoverbike carefully, going well below what he would normally push. Maybe it’s because of how slow his thoughts feel or how his hands cramp around the handles, but it takes him significantly longer to get back this time.

When he finally breaches his front door, the lock still sticking when he opens and jams it close again, he slumps onto his little couch, dropping the bag on the floor. 

Time passes him by and he barely notices it, burrowing deeper into the cushions. 

Soon, he thinks.

* * *

Keith stares in the mirror and all he can see are hollow cheeks and puffy eyes. There’s dried tear tracks on his cheeks, running down his chin, and his eyes looked bruised and swollen, puffy from all the crying he’s been doing. They feel itchy and he rubs at them with the back of his hand, sniffling. When he pulls his hand back down to grip the sink, the same sight greets him, no better, eyes redder.

His hair is longer, he notes. It now curves around his shoulders, the strands thick and oily and dirty. A few strands stick to his skin, thick with sweat. He sniffs at his collar and his nose twitches in protest. He can’t remember the last time he’s showered and it shows that it’s been a while. It curls around his ears and he can almost hear the ghost of Shiro’s laugh, his fingers toying with the ends.

_“Need a haircut, cadet?”_

Lips twitch, nose wrinkling. He closes his eyes and breathes in, once. The air is stale and hot, desert air dry and sickly with his grief. He reopens his eyes.

His skin is dry and flaking, the area around his lips and nose chapped and dead. Bags and dark circles mock him like a shadow in the room, speaking to his lack of ability to sleep these last few weeks. Has it really been only a few weeks? Keith feels like he’s been empty for years.

Maybe he has. Maybe it’s just now catching up to him.

His clothes hang off of him, his already slight frame having become even skinnier with both his lack of effort and lack of food. He knows there’s some left still, some granola bars no doubt stashed on the near-empty cabinet shelves. His stomach does not long for them though, the growls having become a thing of the past. Hunger stalks his thoughts, an ache building beneath his ribs that poke out when he lifts his shirt, but it remains silent still. He is not hungry. Not for food.

He rests a hand on the too thin skin there, long thin fingers brushing against his navel and around his hip. The bones jut out there too and he pinches at them, oddly distant from what he is seeing. Taking a look down, past the thin ratty boxers, his knees shake a little and he swallows hard. His hand, resting across his abdomen, rakes a track across as he longs to feel something, and to his surprise he does.

Keith looks to it, sees the pointed edges of his nails, the shape odd and unfamiliar to him, and he looks to his skin that now has three neat rows on it, little buds of blood pooling up to the surface. He has scratched himself, he realizes, he has clawed himself. He lifts his hand, stares at the claws, at the blood tinted tips, and grips it into a fist. He feels them pinch at the skin there too and he growls, lips pulling back into a snarl.

Grief does not look good on him, he decides. Shiro would hate to see him like this, would hate what he’s allowed to be done to himself. He can almost imagine the heavyweight of his disappointment and undeserved guilt. Shiro would both fret at him, pulling at his sleeves and guiding him to his kitchen by his shoulders, while also apologizing for letting this happen.

_It’s not your fault,_ Keith thinks, but of course, no one’s here to hear that anyway.   
  


That familiar heat of anger begins to rise up in him then as he thinks of Shiro. He thinks of the way his eyebrows would knit together and arch down, his concern and worry evident, as he takes in Keith’s state. He thinks of the way Shiro would put his hand on his shoulder, would frown at feeling the bone there too, and he thinks of the way he would say Keith’s name, like he’s scared and sad, like he sees something Keith already doesn’t hate. He doesn’t want that, he thinks. He doesn’t want that worry, that pity, and he _hates_ that he just knows Shiro would apologize for it with a pressed kiss to his hair, eyes downcast.

The anger grows and he can feel it burn his insides, melting his bones and scorching everything else he feels, until Keith is drawing that clawed fist back and sending it straight into the mirror.

The result is immediate, of course. Pain lights up his arm and the sound of glass shattering breaks the silence. Shards and little pieces of glass fall to the sink and down to the floor, where some of them break even more. He clutches his hand to his chest, gasping in a heavy breath. It feels like the first true breath he’s taken in a while and he feels awake, alive. Blood slides down his shaking fingers, the claws somehow still there, and he hisses as he moves them, curling them inward a little more.

He looks back to where the mirror had once been, a few jagged pieces of glass stuck to the frame, his face split into a thousand directions. Yellow sclera and dark blue irises stare back at him, wide and afraid. He feels like a wild animal and looking at himself, he sees one too.

Gingerly, he steps around the glass towards the toilet, careful to not step in it. He feels fragile, shaky, like he has to hold himself differently now. He feels exposed, but to himself in a way he hasn’t recognized in awhile.

He practically slumps against the toilet cover, leaning against the back of it with a hiss. He opens his bloody hand again and sees the glass digging into his skin, cutting him even more, and he sighs. Someone has to pick that out and it’ll have to be him. He’s the only one here, the only one he has to fall back on, and it hits him then what he’s truly feeling, what that edge he has rubbing against him wrong is.

He’s all alone.

Again.

* * *

He slumps against the bed, cold and shivering. The room spins, his hands shaking, and Keith gasps, clutching at straws his hands can’t even reach.

He falls asleep like that, restless and jumpy, and when he opens his eyes again, color bleeds through.

Shiro is laying next to him, the sun bearing down upon them, the sea in his nose.

“Wh-?” Shiro turns his head and smiles back, lips curved delicately.

“You made it back.” He sounds surprised, pleasantly so, like part of him hadn’t expected Keith to come back and honestly, Keith wasn’t sure if he would either.

  
“Where else would I be?” He says, eyes tracking over the line of his jaw. Here, with the wind ruffling his bangs, it was so hard to think this could be anything but real. It felt like a dream in that Shiro was even here, alive and whole, face relaxed and easy but the colors were too sharp, too pointed, and bright. He could feel the wind on his cheeks, could taste the grass on every exhale, and when he shifted, he felt the warm press of Shiro’s leg against his own.

He tilted his foot, hitting Shiro’s. The man smiled at him again, full of teeth, and Keith thought of the bloodied man haunting his halls and looked away.

_It’s not real._ He reminded himself but god did it feel it.

The shack was empty, cold and too hot at the same time, with wolves lurking around its edges, starving and twisted, and here all he felt was warmth. Soft dirt pressed against his back, the sea whispering secrets in his ears, and Shiro, breathing and ethereal with life, was by his side where he belonged.

_Find me._ She whispered, even here, energy brushing against his palm. Keith blinked it away and turned on his side.

Shiro did the same.

“I don’t know how to do this.” He confesses, as if the man would even know what he was talking about.

Shiro stretched and grazed his fingers through the grass, brushing the blades. “You can do anything, Keith.”

He swallowed and thought of dry lips, alcohol burns, and broken glass. “Maybe not this.”

He didn’t like who he was without him.

“They say you’re dead.” He told him. “And I can’t find you. I-”

Shiro sighed and nudged his foot with his own, smile still painting his lips soft. Grey eyes turned to look back at him, just as understanding as they have always been. “Where I am, the stars are gone.”

Keith’s breath hitched.

“The walls are grey. Cold.” He looked back up, at the open sky and the sun, cozy with clouds. “I can’t feel my right hand.”

“Matt’s gone.” He says on the next gust of wind and it carries it, to Keith’s ears and away, and he feels it sink into his bones, heavy. “Sam’s been from the beginning. What they’ve done-” He swallows and dips his hand deeper into the fresh dirt. 

_Who are they?_ Keith wants to ask.

“I don’t know what to do either,” Shiro tells him and it feels like a secret. Shiro’s always known what to say, what to do, and to see him feeling this helpless? It makes it worse. “Everything is gone. Everything we’ve known . . . . Space is so cold, Keith. Unforgiving. And up here? I can’t even feel the earth. Can’t remember what the sun feels like on my face.” He tips his face up like he’s reaching for it, and Keith bites his lips.

He turns and looks back at Keith, gaze far away, like he sees a room outside of here, of this dream too close to not be real. “But here? With you? None of that matters.”

He reaches out and Keith meets his hand in the middle, linking their fingers over the grass. An ant crawls over them.

“It doesn’t matter where I am, Keith,” Shiro tells him and he says it like he means it, like Keith’s heart isn’t fighting to break out of his chest, ready to rip his skin open, tear through his lungs and reach out too. Like Keith can’t see the pain, the anguish, between his brows, in the curve of his nose. “You’re here and that’s enough.”

“I’m going to find you,” Keith promises, throat tight, heart beating too fast. Shiro squeezes his hand.

“You already have.”

* * *

After that dream, he doesn’t remember a lot.

An ache is building in his bones, in his muscles, and it makes Keith drag himself around even more. The bed is a welcoming sight, the only company he wants out here, and he spends more time in it these days than he does anywhere else.

He’s visited the grocery store twice this week, a deep hunger making him crave things he hasn’t had in months. His savings are suffering for it but the old clerk seems pleased at least, even going far enough to actually wish Keith a good day now. He can’t explain why he suddenly has to have a giant can of salted peanuts and two boxes of nutty bars by his side at all times but his stomach seems happy for once and the part of him driving his hands down the aisles rubs pleasant against his nerves.

Right now though there’s a different kind of hunger burning low in his belly.

His pants feel too tight, too constricting, and he shoves them off, pushing the rough material past his thighs and around his knees so he can further kick them off.

Sweating, Keith rolls over onto his stomach. Everything is burning hot, a thin layer of sweat on his skin and beading down his forehead. Thighs tremble when he draws his knees under him, a hand wrapping around his aching stomach. The sheets feel rough and scratchy against his bare body and he shoves them away.

His dick aches, way too tingly in his underwear, and he ignores it, not wanting to face that. He hasn’t touched himself in months, the action not something he usually partakes in. Sex isn’t something Keith cares for, isn’t what he thinks about, and yet there’s a hum under his skin, aching to be felt, to be taken care of.

He wonders if Shiro would have taken care of him and instantly flushes at the thought, shoving it aside. It feels weird to think of his friend like that, especially when he never has before. Objectively, Keith is highly aware Shiro is attractive. He’s always wanted to pepper kisses along his jawline or run his hands over his sides, but never has he wanted for him like this.

He doesn’t like the thought of it and resotely ignores the intrusive thoughts. Whatever this sickness is, he’s not going to let it control him.

So Keith just miserably lies in bed, fever spiking higher and higher, kicking his sheets and turning around constantly. It’s horrible and his whole body cramps, legs spasming and hips twinging with pain. There’s a constant burn all over him, nipping at his stomach and hands and feet. His toes twitch, fingers curling in threadbare cotton. Everything hurts, his head spins, and he doesn’t know what to do.

He’s never felt like this before. Even before starting testosterone he never got like this. Periods sucked yes and while it was a similar feeling, it never got this bad or desperate.

As the day wears on, he gets hotter. Sweat coats his skin, the lazy turn of the fan doing nothing to alleviate it, and his tongue feels too heavy and big in his mouth, crowding against his cheeks. Spit pools around and under it and he drools against his pillow, hot and sticky. He swallows thickly and his stomach lurches, making him clamp his lips shut hard. The room spins and he rolls over.

Shiro looks back at him.

Keith blinks weakly, eyes too heavy and the room too hot. Distantly, he knows Shiro can’t actually be here. He’s dead. _DeadDeadDead_. But his mind is slow, syrupy, and when this Shiro faintly smiles at him, he can’t help but whimper and reach out.

Seeing Shiro cools something inside him, makes his body slow down to a weird, stuttery beat. He lays his hand flat next to Shiro’s own, palm up. He doesn’t want to try and touch him, doesn’t want to ruin the illusion.

If this is all he can have . . . he’ll take it.

“Baby,” Shiro coos, voice impossibly soft and _real_.

Keith whines, high and feral, lost to his own instincts he can’t even begin to explain. 

“Shiro,” He gasps and it’s so hard to push his name out, so hard to form the letters when all he wants is to taste them, to feel him. “I don’t feel good.”

Tears gather along his eyes and he blinks them away, tracking hot trails down his cheeks. His next breath comes out thin, throat tight. “I don’t know what’s going on.” He confesses and it feels so much more real now, more scary, now that he’s admitted it.

Something is wrong with him and he doesn’t know how to stop it. Doesn’t know if he can.

Shiro smiles but it looks wrong on his face, too fragile and strange. His brow relaxes, eyes still too soft. “You know what to do, Keith.”  
  


_God,_ he hasn’t heard his name in that voice in so long. It’s been months, months longer since he’s seen or heard from his friend, months since he got the news, and the tears run more freely down his cheeks. His body is wracked senseless with this heat, thoguhts dumb and slow, and he just wants to touch him, to feel Shiro’s hands on his shoulders and against his palm, and he can’t have him, can’t feel him here, because he’s _dead_.

A sob cracks in his throat, leaving chapped lips like a grasping prayer. His fingers twitch and clench tightly, trying to hold onto something he’s already lost and it makes him cry harder.

“I don’t want to,” he says around the tears and Shiro gives him that broken smile again and it just makes it worse.

“I know,” the ghost says, because that’s what he has to be, what all of this is. Just a fevered dream of this strange sickness. “I’m here.”

Another cry wrestles itself out of his throat and he nods too hard, chin jerking against his chest, but does as Shiro asks. Hands shaking, he slides them downward. Keith presses one against him aching tummy, cramps fussing him up, as he pushes the other past the waistband of his boxers.

The elastic snaps over his knuckles and he keeps going until he’s touching soaked thighs. They tremble under his fingertips, a hollow pain thrumming beneathe, and he goes up higher, where he’s wet and empty.

Keith doesn’t think as he shoves his fingers in and sets to work, just zeros in on Shiro’s breathy voice as he talks next to his ear, encouraging him.

It hurts at first, his body not used to this kind of treatment, but the more he does, the easier it gets. It still feels weird, still feels like a chore, but as pleasure builds, the ache in his bones begins to dim. His legs twitch, both in relief and pain, and he bites back a gasp. It feels good.

“That’s it,” Shiro whispers and he hisses through his teeth, eyes fluttering open to look at him. “You’re doing so good.”

“It hurts,” He says, because despite the excessive amount of slick easing the way, the press in is still too tight, too foreign. His body aches for more, craves it, and it wants it now and fast, but he doesn’t know how, doesn’t really want to.

Shiro hushes him, his own pale fingers twitching, like he’s fighting just as much as Keith is to not touch him. “I know, baby.” Keith’s breath hitches. “Let me help.”

It goes on like that, with Shiro’s voice guiding Keith’s hands, nice and slow. It’s easier somehow, to just do what Shiro says and not think too much about it. His body bends to his wishes, relaxing and unclenching as Shiro praises him for a good job. He doesn’t feel like he’s done anything special to warrant the praise but it burns hot against his thoughts anyway, like a soothing balm to the fever plaguing him.

He comes apart like this, body slumping against his bed in a sweaty but painless mess.

Shiro shooshes and whispers things next to him, but sleep is hedging his vision and before Keith can even try to make sense of it, it overrides him and he tips over into slumber.

  
  


But it doesn’t go away because not even an hour later his body is protesting again.

Heat pools between his legs, slicking his already messy thighs up again. He’s not sure when the sun started to set, maybe while he was asleep, maybe when his hands were busy, but his room is dark and empty now. Pale moonlight paints his legs and he crosses them over the ankles, a low rumble settling in the base of his throat.

He pants as he pushes his boxers all the way off, the cotton sticky and sweaty. They feel cool and gross against his skin but it’s a relief to finally get them off, to be completely bare in the safety of his bed.

_You know what to do,_ Shiro had said and he was right. Keith does.

He doesn’t think about it this time as he frames his small dick between his fingers, guiding them up and around. He brushes clawed fingers against the sensitive head, peaking it back with a loud, needy keen.

He pants as he twists himself to lay on his front, shoving his knees up to prop his lower half up. He clenches his thighs, squeezing his hand between them, and keens again as a fresh wave of slick escapes him, covering the tips of his fingers. Sliding his nose against his pillow, he breathes the scent in. Everything seems so much starker, the smell of sweat, sex, and smoke strong.

Keith breathes against his pillow, roughing it up as he pushes his fingers down harder, faster. Drool slips past his lips, melting in his mouth, and the urge to sink his teeth down grows.

He brings his arm up to rest his forehead on, panting against the sheet before he sinks his mouth over his wrist. Drunkenly, he sucks against the hollow beneath his palm, sliding his tongue over it and counting himself in his own saliva.

His skin tastes sweet and sweaty, not at all like his soap smells. Keith breathes more of it in as he jerks his fingers, pushing them down to toy with his hole. He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing, just trying to get this over and done with as fast and possible. It feels good enough though so he keeps it up.

His pincher teeth feel sharp against his tongue, pushing against his skin and cutting into his mouth. Keith pries his lips open more so he can sink fangs into his skin, right where his veins rise against the inside of his wrist.

The need to mark, to sink his teeth in deeper grows as he thinks about how Shiro’s hands would feel on him and he gives into it.

The bright flinch of blood coats his tongue, making his jerk and sink his teeth in harder. It pools around his teeth, filling his mouth and sliding past his lips in thick drops down his chin. His wrist wouldn’t stop bleeding and as the pain registered, the fever cleared, making way for panic.

There’s too much blood and even with how hazy his thoughts feel right now, Keith knows that’s a bad thing.

He’s fucked up. So hard. Keith shifts, drawing his wounded arm close to his chest with a hiss as more blood seeps out of it, staining his sheets and reddening his skin. It’s hot and sticky, like everything else, and nausea builds, sick at the sight.

The panic is building, taking over the fever for a second, but then there's a cool press of calm against his thoughts, foreign and not his own.

_Safe,_ a voice says, low and warm and not at all like the rest of his thoughts have been. A different kind of fear surges over him and he feels a tug, right below his ribs and along his forearm, before he jerks the offending limb back in front of him and gapes.

Something cool rises over his skin, from somewhere he doesn’t know. Keith watches as water rushes up his arm, over the open wound, skin knitting back together and leaving thin, white scars. It’s so easy, so simple, so quick. More water rushes over him, until he feels a push on his stomach and it’s rushing up his throat.

He clutches at his throat, digging nails into the thin pale skin there. There’s a lurch in his stomach, a tug that has the last of his air escape in a short rush. Blood stains his teeth, drools down his chin, and he jerks forward with a cough.

Water rushes out, past his lips in gushing streams Keith’s own mortal body couldn’t possibly contain.

Panting, he falls to his knees. More water dribbles down his chin, dripping onto the floor. With shaking fingers he lifts them to his lips, tracing them over the skin.

“ _Live_ ,” the voice whispers and he slides his fingers down, over his aching throat.

He tightens his grip, wrapping them around, and stares at the pool of water around his feet. Dropping a hand, Keith touches it.

The water is cool.

“ _Live_ ,” the voice said again, louder, and he pulls himself up on shaking legs into a weak stand.

He nods and wraps an arm around his stomach. The skin is healed, wet blood still staining it but unmarred.

Only scars remained, thin and dark. He nods again. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

* * *

Keith’s trying not to panic.

Look, he knows more than anyone that he has lost it these past few months. Keith is more than capable of being honest with himself. He knows he’s handled Shiro’s disappearance like shit, knows he hasn’t been taking care of himself like he should.

He can handle the hunger, can handle the weird flashes of a bloody Shiro haunting his halls. Can even handle a weird fever dream of the man in his bed, helping him masturbate. It’s weird but not all that bizarre, given everything.

What he can’t handle, can’t wrap his mind around, is the strange, unfamiliar voice echoing in his head. It’s distinctly feminine, a cool, motherly voice that he has most definitely never heard in his life. Keith’s met a lot of women after all but none of them are what he’d call maternal.  
  


There’s a light hum in his ear, like a bee buzzing but quieter somehow. Slower.

It’s been there ever since he rolled himself away from his pool of vomit, heavy from water drenched clothes. He digs still bloody hands into his hair and pulls on the strands, hard. The buzzing gets louder, warping into words he can’t make out. They mush together, like wet flour in a bowl, and he digs his nails into his scalp with a hiss.

_Find me._ She says. _Search._

His hands shake and he thinks of the taste of blood in his mouth, when he had accidentally tore his skin with his teeth. With fangs that he didn’t feel sink in, didn’t know he had, and that makes the panic spike higher. He doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him, what’s happening, and it makes Keith pull harder, dig in deeper.

A cool rush overcomes his heated skin. _Calm down,_ the voice returns, firm but gentle.

He gasps, broken and hollow. “What are you?”

He sees flashes in his mind suddenly, quick and colored. Crystal clear in detail, like none of his dreams or memories ever are. Keith sees cool metal, blue paint, and smells the rush of fresh salt water.

_Find me,_ she says again. The buzzing in his ear settles, slows down and quietens until it’s gone entirely. Her voice disappears, silence settling in his head once more.

* * *

After that, Keith does what he does best: trek on. 

There’s something about almost accidentally dying that puts him back into perspective. It’s like a fresh bucket of water has been dumped over him (which it kind of has, he realizes). After months of treading himself through the days, working through movements he himself didn’t feel, it feels like someone’s shaken his shoulders hard, waking him up.

Keith’s thoughts feel sharper, clearer in a way they haven’t been in way too months.

The hunger and burn in his body is imperative, pushing him into the kitchen where he forgoes a cup and drinks directly from the faucet. Water runs past his lips, down his chin, and soaks the shirt he tugged on an hour ago after whatever happened was over.

Being like this, soaked and pale and shaky, with wet blood still covering his skin makes him grip the sink faucet hard. It squeaked, groaning in protest at the manhandling, and he shoved himself off of it with a gasp.

Keith drags his way towards the bathroom, fumbling into the wall and knocking his knee against the cement block coffee table. The light was already on, something present Keith was aware enough to be annoyed over, and when he looked into the mirror he had to keep his jaw clenched.

Blood crusted around his lips, something wild and angry in the dark corners of his face. His hair is a mess, curls framing his face in frizzy loops. Some stick to his skin with sweat and water and he pushes his bangs back with a huff, dirty, thin hands feeling too hard to be his.

How has he become this?

With a snarl, Keith runs out of the bathroom and into the living room. His body feels far away and possessed as he rips a piece of colored paper out of one of the abandoned books. Picking up a pen he haphazardly threw on the table days ago, Keith jots down words in anger. His hand shakes, jerky and pointed, and the letters squish together, their ends too quick and angry.

_It’s killing me when you’re away_

* * *

The next time he dreams of him, they’re not outside.

Keith recognizes the cool metal all around him from the first dream, the way the colors warp and point like too sharp corners. The draft is cold on his skin, like the space outside the window he’s passing by, and he looks down the long hall.

Wherever he is, it’s clearly a ship. A big one. The purple lights flicker, dim but then bright again, as he walks, the echoes of his footsteps loud in the empty space.

He’s not sure where he is but everywhere he looks, there’s an edge of red to his vision. Nothing here gives off the light, is even the same color, and yet he keeps noticing it, right before he turns his head.

Keith feels like he’s slipping unconscious, but instead of the black, sucking darkness sweeping him in, it’s a wave of red.

It’s hot too, at least inside. The draft still blows cool against his skin and he can tell the air is about the same, but inside, resting between his ribs, he feels a heat building. The more he walks, the stronger it gets, until he’s sweating as chills rack through him.

It’s a contradiction, the whole ship, one he doesn’t understand.

Ahead, footsteps sound, steady and heavy as they march in time with each other, and he ducks against the wall, out of the way but not out of sight. Whatever is coming will see him and he can do nothing to stop that.

He sees the soldiers first. Their armor, purple and grey, almost blends in with the walls as they walk. Their lights, a scratch down their chest in the shape of an insignia he doesn’t know, and a sweep over marking eyes, shine a bright pink. It’s the pink, unlike anything else on the ship so far, that catches his eyes first.

They’re so close to him now, eyes focused ahead, and yet, they don’t seem to notice him. None of them say a thing or even look right at him.

Then he sees Shiro and none of that matters.

His friend is being held between the robots, limp and bloody as they half-drag, half-march him down the hall. There’s blood dripping down his face from a cut on his hairline, sticky and dark. More blood flows from his mouth and when they walk closer to him, he can see the pools of it staining his teeth as it falls to cover all of his front.

There’s more scars on his skin, more cuts and bruises, and his leg looks wrong as they make him walk on it, stumbling and dizzy and not at all here.

“Shiro!” He calls out but no one turns to look at him, not even his friend. Shiro doesn’t even twitch, doesn’t seem to have heard him at all.

No one is acknowledging him, no one can see or hear him, and now he really doesn’t get it. If he’s not here for Shiro, then why is he here at all?

A laugh rings down the hall, low and twisted, and he stiffens. It echoes off the walls, ringing through his ears. Neither Shiro nor the drones look towards it, just keeping their faces forward as they continue to march down the hall. Keith sends them a look, not wanting to seperate, to be away from Shiro, before he turns away and starts to walk.

As his friend turns the corner, out of his sight, Keith steps towards the direction the laugh came from.

It strikes up again, louder and as the noise rings out, the walls move.

Keith spins in place, watching as panels are removed from the ships siding, exposing the space behind them. There’s a rush of air, as the ship breaks down and gravity twists it into mangled pieces of metal. Purple and black stars twinkling around him, 

He feels a hand settle on his shoulder, pointed and tight as it grips him, and when he looks around, there’s a woman behind him. She’s got long, white hair that falls around her hooded face in dull, flat strands, and when she pulls her chin up, he sees a flash of gold eyes. Familiar.

“You shouldn’t be here, Red One.” She hisses and then all the colors shift as she shoves at his chest. Keith falls back, feels the fire inside of him being sucked tight, as if through a straw. The world narrows, darkening, and a rush of vertigo comes over him, before heat engulfs his body entirely. It’s too hot, too bright, and he screams, once, before his knees hit the ground hard and he’s gasping.

“K-Keith?” A voice whispers before hands settle over him, calm and careful, and pull him closer to them. He can feel the heat of Shiro’s body, can smell the strange mix of sweat and blood, and he exhales slowly, shakily, before opening up his eyes.

They’re in the cell. _Shiro’s cell,_ Keith thinks distantly. It’s exactly as he remembered, if only a bit more dirty with Shiro’s blood staining random spots on the floor.

Shiro’s leaning against the wall, now with Keith tucked against his side and under his right arm. Keith peaks down, where bruises cover it in angry, big dark purple splotches, and he feels the fire inside him rage at the sight of it, cooling into something dark, something unsettling. It creeps up his thoughts, making him clench his jaw and forcefully look away.

He’s not sure why, but he knows something bad will happen. Soon.

( _Soon,_ she growls.)

Shiro has his legs stretched out in front of him, one bent and propped as he avoids making contact with the ground. Keith draws his gaze over it, worried, before looking back up at Shiro. He sees the flash of yellow around Shiro’s irises before Keith blinks and they’re back to a clear white.

He hears the echo of the woman’s laugh again and shudders.

“Have you,” He swallows, not liking what he has to ask. “Have you been here all this time?”

Shiro clenches his jaw but doesn’t look away. He drags a hand over Keith’s hair, gentle as always, before he nods. “I don’t know how long it’s been.”

Keith doesn’t either. Shiro was on the Persephone for months before they even made it to Kerberos, months safe and happy on the ship of his lifetime. Keith doesn’t know when they took him, if it was as soon as their feet touched the surface of the moon or days later, when they went out again and again. There’s no clear timetable here, no way for him to know just how long Shiro had been safe and healthy and alive for.

It’s been almost a year since the Kerberos mission failure had been announced though and he fists Shiro’s shirt tight at the thought, staining his own fingers red with his friends blood.

He doesn’t tell him that though.

“What are they doing to you?” He asks and Shiro gives him a look, one that asks him Are you sure you want to know? And when Shiro himself breathes voice to those thoughts, Keith nods despite the doubt creeping up.

No. He doesn’t want to know what they’ve done to him, how they’ve torn him apart to rebuild him and make him something else, how they’ve ripped out pieces of his friends soul that the man may never get back, may never want to, but he has to know regardless.

Keith has to know.

“They call it the arena.” Shiro says, his voice flat and lifeless as he speaks, looking away from keith for the first time. “Not unlike the Gladiator rings.” His hold tightens, back straightening awkwardly. Shiro clears his throat. “They put us in the first week we were here.”  
  
We. Keith hasn’t seen Matt and Sam, not once, and tries not to let the fear, the panic, mount. He can’t think about them. Not right now.

“I’m going to die here.” Shiro tells him, monotone, and Keith jerks back, out of his arms, and presses him roughly into the wall. Shiro flinches, like Keith’s hands are a shock, and looks at him, eyes wide and bright.

“That’s not an option.” He snarls, angrier and burning hotter than he has in a long time. Keith feels the embers inside of him spiking, louder than they had when the woman shoved them, hears the ocean in his ear rolling with a roar, just as loud. His hands shake as they grip Shiro’s shirt, tight and pale.

“Keith-” Shiro starts but he hisses and clenches harder.

“No!” He cuts his eyes over his face, where the blood is still dripping down his skin, lazy and slow but just as dark, just as scary. The bruises look worse. “I’m not losing you, Shiro. I can’t.”

Keith thinks about his shack, about the bloody glass falling on the floor and the water that rushed past his lips, too strong, too forceful. He thinks of the nights where he drowned his feelings and the nightmares with alcohol. Losing Shiro cut like a blade, sharper than the one in his home, and he isn’t going to go through this again.

He _can’t_.

“Keith.” Shiro repeats himself, softer than before, and Keith makes himself look, can’t imagine himself ever not wanting to look at this man, and bites back a cry at how sad, how sorry, Shiro looks. “You can’t fight everything. Not this.”  
  


He bares his teeth in a mockery of before, can feel the way his chin wobbles, but it doesn’t matter now how weak he looks. Shiro already knows he’s fragile.

“I don’t care what I have to do to save you, Shiro.” He tells him, words slow and measured as he breathes deeply, calmly. They settle over him in a way that makes everything else slow down. He doesn’t think about the shack or the energy in the desert or the blood on his fingers. Keith only thinks about the steady beat of the heart pressed against his forearm. Slow. Calm. Here. “I’m not giving up on you.”

The man smiles at him, teeth red, and he feels the brush of a flame for just a second at the sight before it dims away. “Maybe you should. It’d be easier.”

Keith opens his mouth to argue, to protest, because how could Shiro ever think losing him would be easier? But the man keeps going before he can and the smile grows.

“But I know you too well. I know how you are.” A hand touches the nape of his neck, cool fingers trailing down the sensitive skin there, and Keith shivers and presses closer. “I don’t deserve you.”

Keith sniffles and nuzzles Shiro’s throat. Deserve? He wants to scoff.

“Don’t be silly.” He pulls back, looks Shiro in the eye. Touches his mouth with his thumb, slowly, reverently. “I love you.”

* * *

  
  


When he goes to the store that week, he spends the most he ever has.

There’s some fruits and vegetables in his basket with bread and sliced deli meat he instantly started salivating over when he saw it. Pasta and a giant jar of sauce is tucked in the corner, making the basket heavy and lopsided. He doesn’t have enough for spices or anything to make any of it really pop, but it’s the most he’s ever got in one trip and there’s both a nervous tick in his hands and a pleased hum with his smile.

He hasn’t had spaghetti in months. Meat even longer.

The clerk is the same man it has always been and Keith briefly wonders if the man’s ever _not_ here. He eyes Keith’s noticeably larger basket with something akin to a smile and thankfully doesn’t comment when Keith adds a few packages of beef jerky to the top. Keith himself shifts almost guiltily.

This man hasn’t known him long. Only knows the Keith of now, the one he’s let himself become in his grief. It’s an ugly, angry, scrawny thing and yet this man hasn’t judged him one step of the way. He doesn’t know Keith used to be a top pilot at the Garrison, doesn’t know Keith likes to eat as much pizza as humanly possible. Doesn’t know Keith’s favorite candy is a twix bar and that Shiro would always manage to snag him one.

This man only knows Keith can stretch a loaf of bread for two weeks, that he likes peanut butter and eyes the Reese's cups but will never, ever buy one. He must think Keith doesn’t drink soda, only forces the crappy, cheap instant coffee down his throat.

He barely knows Keith, barely knows who he must have been before, and yet . . . .

“You’re looking better these days.” The man grunts, his voice low and scratchy like gravel. He jerks his chin in. “Less scrappy.”

Keith peeks through his bangs and shrugs. The man eyes him back before frowning.

“Still too skinny though.” He says right before he grabs another hanging packet of jerky. Keith opens his mouth to protest, brows furrowing, but the man cuts him a look and he stops himself.

He counts the bills Keith hands him next, giving Keith one back even though he gave exact change and the man knows it. He takes it back anyway, knows the stubborn set of the man’s jaw as well as his own by now.

“Thanks,” He mumbles, tucking his wallet back into his back pocket and grabbing ahold of his bags.

The man grunts. “Names Charlie.” He says and Keith looks at him. “If you’re gonna be here awhile, might as well use it.”

Keith breathes through his nose and eyes the man’s dirty hat, his equally dirty flannel, and pushes out an awkward smile. “Have a good one, Charlie.” He tells him and if all the man does is grunt in reply then, well, Keith counts it as a win.

* * *

He goes further into town the next day, seeking the overcrowded, overpriced aisles of a supermarket. It feels almost like a dirty secret to be going there rather than Charlie’s corner store, but some evils have to be faced.

There’s next to nothing that would drag Keith out to these hell holes, but for once he’s willing to drag himself through the crowds of loud families and awkward small talk.

It takes him twenty minutes to find the office supplies, as Keith has definitely never been here and the store’s order doesn’t really make sense to him at all. He’s got exactly thirty bucks to waste on this but he takes pleasure in grabbing all off brand sticky notes, push pins, and permanent markers. The energy inside of him gives a pleased purr, making a smile tuck against his cheek.

After placing the giant corkboard in, he throws a notebook in his cart just in case, as Keith definitely didn’t pack his school supplies from the Garrison when he jumped ship. He did, however, grab his old camera Matt got him for his birthday and now that this project is eating his attention, he’s supremely grateful for it.

Keith’s pretty sure he doesn’t need anything else to track whatever the voice is down, at least nothing more that he doesn’t already have, and so he leaves the store, still with six dollars, and heads back home.

_I’m coming,_ he thinks to her and if Shiro’s face fills his head, he doesn’t think about it.

* * *

  
  


When he gets home, Keith pushes the bookshelf into the corner and hangs the cork board up. Like a man possessed he screws the mounts in and pulls aside the box from the corner of the room.

There’s a bunch of old papers and the like in there and so he digs around until he finds a map of the area. While Keith himself doesn’t need it to make his way around, it would still be a good idea to keep track of everything. Once he finds two copies of the map, he throws one onto the table and pins the other one up with green tacks.

He leaves the bag of supplies on the floor, at the foot of the board. While there’s nothing for him to write notes on yet, there’s a feeling in his gut that that’s going to change tomorrow.

Once finished, Keith takes a step back and peers at the board. Old videos of conspiracies flash through his mind and he has to hold back a scoff. It’s not exactly a surprise that he would get to this, when a younger, more quiet version of Keith had spent hours watching videos on cryptids and abnormal activities. Matt and him had even engaged in watching them back at the Garrison, arguing over the Bermuda triangle and egyptian pyramids.

There’s an odd sense of accomplishment he feels just looking at the board with it’s lone map. The buzzing in his head spikes before settling, like it too is proud of him, and with one last glance at it he’s more determined than ever to go exploring.

Tomorrow, he promises. Tomorrow.

* * *

The stars are bright above them, surrounded by greens and blues so deep he thinks this is what the ocean would look like if the sun could hug it too. Light bleeds through the teal clouds like it would the water and Keith can almost see a fish swimming through the vapors.

Shiro’s hand is in his own as they stargaze, thick and warm and when he looks at him his friend looks so happy, so light. Not at all unlike the few times he’s seen him here.

Keith never wants to look away.

* * *

  
  


The next morning Keith slams the shack door closed and throws his leg over his pa’s hoverbike.

He’s got his backpack on, which carries all he’ll need for the day like his notebook, the old tattered map, and his camera. The air is cool on his skin, sun not yet high enough and the season late enough it’s the perfect hiking weather. He wears Shiro’s grey garrison hoodie over ripped jeans.

If this is going to be his first step to finding him, actually finding him, then he wants Shiro here with him for the journey.

He takes the final sips of his juice down, tossing the bottle into the side pocket, before revving the engine. The bike is slow to start, protesting weakly before roaring to life with a loud purr that he feels in his hands. He twists them around the handles, feeling the thin leather press roughly into his palm, and grins.

Like always, riding comes to him naturally and as he heads off into the desert, over trails and paths he long since has ignored, he feels the pull in his gut urging him on. The voice is silent today, not offering up even a peep or whisper of instruction, but he doesn’t need it. Never has.

Maybe the dream last night had taken more out of her than normal though.

Keith’s convinced the dream was somehow real, especially when he woke up with the smell of blood, sweat, and cloves still thick in his nose. Goosebumps had rubbed his skin high and he knows, _he knows_ , everyone would tell him it was just his body reacting to a particularly strong dream, but Keith also knows that the colors had been too sharp, the focus too keen.

That dream hadn’t been normal, especially not with the voice clouding his mind after jerking him out of it. Somehow, somewhere, Shiro was alive and this voice knew that. It was going to take Keith to him.

He was going to them. As long as it took.

Up ahead was a stream and Keith pulled the bike up beside it, parking along the bank and a cluster of small boulders. Above vultures whined and hissed, circling around nothing. He pushed his sleeves up and took the backpack off, pulling out his notebook and an emf meter.

Keith will probably never know for sure why his dad just happened to have one of these, but he remembers the man being an avid believer in the supernatural. Ghost tales and legends were common bedtime stories for Keith growing up and he likes to think his love for conspiracy videos had come from the man somehow too. Whether Keith’s pa had ever actually used the thing to go ghost hunting or not will remain a mystery, he’s happy to partake in the use of it now for his own searching.

He knows how to use one, thanks to Matt having convinced his parents to buy them one. They spent a whole week investigating the Garrison grounds with it before Matt got bored after he found nothing. That knowledge helps him now though as he slowly angles the meter around, watching the needle.

The meter clicks rapidly but continuously and he watches as it dances around 0.5 and 1.0. Just like he thought though, when he faces his body south, the needle spikes with a whine, jumping up to 2.0.

Grinning, Keith angles it around, slowly moving the meter to the sides and up and down a few times. It stays steady, dropping only a little or rising up in some cases, and he shoves it back into the pocket of his backpack before pulling his notebook out. Pulling a marker cap off with his teeth, he marks a star on the map by the stream, writing down the level as he does. It’s not much, but it confirms his suspicions enough to track.

He stays by the stream for a little while longer, walking around with the emf meter, tracking it’s readings in regards to his coordinates to see if there’s a pattern. There’s noticeable changes in some direction, which he makes sure to jot down, but before long, his muscles begin to ache and a headache forms behind his eyes. Nausea settles in his stomach, protesting every little step he takes, and when it gets too much he lobbies to cap off his water bottle and head back home.

If Keith’s being honest, he’s quite annoyed with himself. He knows he hasn’t been treating his body very well these past few months, knows the lack of care and food is what’s making him so weak and tired now. He isn’t strong enough to be traipsing through the desert all day right now, but he promises himself that he will be. And soon.

Shiro deserves it. Keith has to be faster.

* * *

  
  


The next day he goes in the opposite direction.

This side of the desert Keith will admit he isn’t as familiar with, as it’s far off from the running streams and wrapping canyons. His pa almost never took this direction, unless they were just venturing out for the day, but Keith feels the same pull in his gut the farther out he gets, urging him on and around curves he hasn’t taken in years.

It’s a familiar drive, if a bit distant in his memory, and it pulls him back to a time before, when he was less alone and he wasn’t the only one searching for something from the land.

Keith’s father had held a lot of secrets. From the townsfolk, from Keith, maybe even from himself. He had never known exactly what his father had been looking for, but Keith remembers long drives out, scanning the area and stargazing all night. His father had even called an electrician out to get a reading of the electromagnetic exposure of the area. Keith had found the papers from that visit last night in his pa’s old clutter box. The numbers had been abnormally high, confirming his suspicions that whatever was out here was definitely radiating a lot of energy and messing with the natural occurring levels.

So he followed the emf meter, listening to it’s chatter as he drove. Keith can’t recall his pa ever using one of these, which doesn’t make complete sense to him since he owned it and was definitely looking at the same things Keith himself was now, but he also remembers the man just seemed to already know what was out there.

He was never looking for it. To him, his pa was seeing if _other people_ could.

His pa already knew what was out in this desert, something Keith found difficult to think about as the man never showed him it or told him about it, making it just another secret of his. Did he hear her calls too? Regardless, the man had definitely been looking for something else and Keith wondered if he would find that out here too.

For now though he took to following his current mission. Whatever his father was hiding out here wanted him to find it too and he wasn’t going to fail her or Shiro.

* * *

  
  


For the rest of the week, Keith scoured the desert, following the energy signals and the itch under his skin. The voice never spoke to him or helped him again in any way, even in his dreams, but he could feel her anyway.

The farther out Keith got, the less itchy his skin felt and the clearer his head got. He didn’t notice it for awhile, but there was a constant headache pounding away behind his eyes. Nausea also rolled around in his belly. He thought at first it was a product of not eating or drinking enough but after consistently taking care of himself for several days, going out of his way to actually eat a large breakfast before coming out, it still tugged at him.

A couple of searches on his broken, barely functioning phone suggested the high emf readings could be responsible. It wasn’t completely documented, as scientists at large believed no physical effects came from them, but some within the community believed otherwise and Keith had to agree with them. As the days wore on and he got stronger and stronger, becoming more like his old self, if a bit too skinny still, the sickness remained.

At least there was no fever again though. He doesn’t think he could handle that.

Keith parks his bike once again by a cluster of rocks, running his hand over the heated stone. A lizard flicked it’s tongue at him as he did, lazily sunbathing as Keith pulled out the emf reader once more.

The meter held the same measure as the stream did, letting him know the area was roughly the same, on the right paths, but still noticeably higher than the emptier, further parts of the desert. He marked the coordinates on his map too.

He turned around for a little bit, not walking too far as he pointed the thing in various directions. The readings stayed the same, making Keith think this area wasn’t going to be super helpful with his search after all, until he pointed it to the right and suddenly the meter jumped up and jumped high.

It went from a solid 2.0 mG up to 5.0 in a blink of the eye, the meter making a loud whirring sound that had him tensing. Just as quickly as it came though, the noise disappeared, dropping back down to normal.

Keith’s breath hitched with excitement and he felt something on the edge of his awareness, like a little nudge, but no matter how long he waited, the emf didn’t spike again.

Still. It was a sign. A very good one at that and with a different colored marker he made note of it on his map with a grin.

The nudge against his thoughts gets stronger, like a hand gripping his arm, and he felt his grin stretch out larger with a pleased humm.

* * *

Over the next couple of weeks, Keith finds more points of unnaturally high levels. None of them last for long, disappearing altogether after less than a few minutes, but when he puts them up on his hiking map and connects the dots, a rough triangle is formed.

What’s more is that when he notes the highest of the readings altogether, they form an even clearer triangle. He puts that one up on his map in the shack.

With the area triangulated, he draws a circle around the points, forming one that encompasses all of his high readings in one, clear space. Staring at it and remembering the tingling in his hands he pulls out his fat marker and writes Energy Source! in all caps at the center of it all.

_Find me,_ he thought. He sure fucking will.

* * *

  
  


That night Shiro plagues his dreams, but unlike before it’s not of the bloody, hazy kind. It’s not even the too sharp, too real kind.

It’s of the Kerberos launch.

Keith remembers the day like it was yesterday, despite it being almost a year since his friends left the planet. The wind had been warm, brushing his too long hair around his cap. Shiro had teased him about it, he remembers, reaching out to tease the end of the black tips.

_Getting lazy, cherrybomb?_

His grin had been pointed and red, like the name, from a cherry popsicle Matt gave him, still staining his lips and Keith had wanted to push closer and taste them , lick the color right off him. Red was his after all.

Matt’s family had been far from the ship, taking photos and laughing loudly as they kept trading hugs and cheek kisses. He remembers looking over at his friend, who was trying to shove his mom away as she peppered him with lipstick kisses that they both giggled at, and feeling a spike of jealousy.

Shiro and him had been much closer to Persephone though, Shiro going over the schematics of the rocket with him as he pointed at various things, like the window he was going to be pilotting by.

But unlike the real thing, in this dream Shiro didn’t keep going and show him the space where they’d all be sleeping. Instead he turned towards Keith, angling their shoulders together so he could drop his hand on Keith’s bony one.

The touch was grounding and too much at the same time.

“Wait for me?” Shiro asked, smiling guilty and selfish but unafraid.

Keith’s heart skipped a beat and his hands got sweaty, making him reach up to yank the stupid beret off so he could fist it in his hands. Shiro peered down at him with that patient, knowing look in his eyes that Keith always melted under.

“I will.” He promised, liked he wanted to that day. But Shiro never asked him to, never allowed himself to, and so he never got to hear Keith say as much.

Keith didn’t have to tell him to make it true. He knew as soon as Shiro saved him from the group home, from the Garrison commanders, that he would do anything for him. That he would wait as long as it took, maybe forever, for Shiro to see him in any way other than that scrappy kid again.

These last few months though, Keith started to see a hint of that in the way Shiro looked at him, touched him.

Ever since the first week of school, Shiro had made a point to meet with Keith in the gym. In the beginning he thought it was Shiro’s way of keeping an eye on him, making sure he didn’t get into too much trouble and soil his name.

But Shiro would wrap Keith’s hands, even though he never bothered before and it didn’t even hurt anyway, and would scold him to drink his water and eat one of Shiro’s suspiciously ready granola bars. Shiro would meet him on the mats, guide him through a few rounds, before letting Keith drop the pre-approved Garrison fighting stands and go ham.

Shiro taught Keith boundaries, fences with rules and order and structure, and in turn Keith taught Shiro to forget all about that and let his teeth show.

After he managed to sweep Shiro off his feet, literally sprawling him against the gym floor, face flushed and air knocked clean, he had felt that spike of fear. Fear he’d finally managed to beat Shiro off. All the older student did though was laugh and invite him over for celebratory pizza.

_“At this rate, you’re gonna beat me in everything.”_ He had said but his easy grin made it carefree and risky and Keith felt himself lose then.

Keith thinks about movie nights spent on Shiro’s couch, thighs pressed together, feet tangled. He’s fallen asleep more than once with his head on Shiro’s shoulder and the thought still makes him blush. Waking up, with a blanket over his lap and Shiro’s arm around his face, axe body wash in his nose, made his day every time. He’d smell his soap all day long and he smells in now, wearing Shiro’s hoodie again as he is.

People stopped questioning why Shiro was hanging out with a junior officer, a cadet still in orange’s with their boots tied too loose, hair too long, and a permanent scowl of displeasure always on their face. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought of him because at the end of the day it was Keith Shiro ate lunch with. Keith who got to pat his friends back when he drank too much after a night in town. Keith who went stargazing and hoverbike racing with him, desert sand in their hair and wildfire in their hearts.

It was always Keith and Shiro. Keith and Shiro who went neck and neck on the simulator scoreboard. Keith and Shiro who wiped the floor with anyone on the mats. Keith and Shiro who got caught sneaking out every other weekend.

He stopped questioning it himself when Shiro told him about his parents in hushed voices and grey photographs. He showed Keith a familiar face of grey eyes and dimpled cheeks by an even more familiar face of a matching jawline and too big ears. He told Keith about the detentions and the fights with his grandpa, too angry and bitter with the world to let them go, and Keith realized then.

Shiro wasn’t helping him because he pitied him. He was helping him because he saw that same angry scowl that used to look back at him in the mirror.

Keith started questioning things again when Shiro would get so dizzy after lunch he’d slump against the wall and insist on Keith dragging him back to his room, to never let anyone see him on the way there. Started wondering why Shiro kept gripping his wrist, hiding the band Keith’s become more than familiar with but never understood. And he started pushing when he heard Sanda’s hushed insults and found Shiro sweaty and scowling over a bike, the word Kerberos still echoing in his ears.

For him, it was always going to end this way, and to think Shiro would ever question it, ever wonder more, wonder why, was laughable.

Keith just simply loved him and he didn’t understand how he could ever answer how or why when the answer was just because how could he _not_.

He looked over at this Shiro, so much like the one he last saw that it made his face hurt, his chest tight. This Shiro was full of promise, full of adventure, and he looked up at Persephone like it was carrying all of his dreams, all of his future.

“I love you.” He told him. Keith didn’t get to let him know that. Didn’t find the time for it between diner visits and study crashes. He may never get those minutes back again. He wouldn’t make the same mistake now.

Shiro tipped his head. The sun peered down at them, framing him in gold, just like it had that day. Keith’s heart lurched all the same. “I know.”

* * *

  
  


At the center of the triangulated energy fluctuations are canyons and caves.

Keith’s boots slap against the ground, over uneven dirt and rocks. He hears the rattle of a snake nearby, low and hissing and smooth. Beside his feet, the river rushes freely, the only sound besides his own labored breathing.

Today, he is on a mission.

It’s well into the day, the sun at its highest as the birds drift above, hungry and sharp. He was late to get out here, a stumbling mess this morning as he searched furiously for the box he stole from the Garrison.

There were very few things Keith actually wanted from that place. As much as he appreciated them for giving him a place to fly, to stretch his wings, it never felt like home, with it’s grey walls and cool air conditioning. He was never made for the military, elbows too bony and smile too pointed.

But they had had Shiro’s heart and in turn, Keith wanted it back.

They didn’t deserve it after what they did.

The dream had rattled him, making him slow in leaving his bed. He had stood blankly under a hot shower for half an hour, trying to soak some warmth back into his muscles after the night. After that though he had thrown the door open and stripped the shack down until he found that ratty box.

It lay at the foot of his bed, under some of his pa’s own things. He must have put it there in the beginning, when the mere sight of it was enough to make his burn. He had taken the hoodie out of it and that was it but this morning, he found enough strength to pull the rest.

One of those things had been Shiro’s dog tags.

The Garrison had refused to hand their copy over at the shitty excuse of a funeral, citing that Keith wasn’t Shiro’s legal partner, that he was nothing but a scrappy, young cadet with an obsession, but what they didn’t know was that the night before the launch, Shiro had taken his set off his neck and looped it around Keith’s fist.

_“Hold on to these.”_

He had refused to wear them at first. Keith wasn’t a grieving widow, wasn’t a forlorn lover, but now, with hope burning in his soul once again, he felt them through his shirt. Like this, Shiro was here for his journey. They’d figure out the truth together.

His camera is looped around his neck too, bumping against his white tank clad chest, right next to Shiro’s dog tags. The metals clink against each other with every other step and he huffs, peering up at the overbearing sun.

Keith’s father and the Garrison may think they can hide everything from him but the energy rattles his bones and sings in his blood and he’s going to find her. Find them.

The rattling gets louder as he crosses over the stream, water licking the bottom of his boots, staining the sleeves of his flannel as it dips down from where it’s wrapped around his waist.

He’s not quite at the canyons yet, still an endless scope of sand before him, but if Keith continues to follow the river, it’ll eventually dry up around the mouth of them.

He took Shiro this way once, back during Keith’s first year as a cadet, when he was still weary of their friendship. It had felt like a token favor, a bit of a peace offering to let the man know that maybe he was willing to try this thing out.

They hadn’t walked from the Garrison of course though. No, for once Shiro had driven his jeep out from the base, boasting about the camping gear Commander Holt let him borrow, despite Matt not even coming with them. Keith hadn’t quite met and befriended him yet at the time.

The whole ride over Shiro had obnoxiously sung old rock songs, ones Keith’s dad had scoffed at but Shiro religiously played every time they tinkered on the bikes. Bees and pollen had tickled their noses, with dirt kicking up under the weight of the tires, and Keith had laughed with him, too big aviators on his nose.

They got to wear their civvies that weekend, free from the confines of military life, which means Keith got the pleasure of seeing Shiro in a too small leather jacket, stretched tight across his broad shoulders, with messy free bangs.

(If he attempted to return the favor by wearing his tightest skinny jeans then that was between him and the small crush he absolutely did not have, thanks).

Spending a whole weekend with Shiro in a tiny tent, in the desert he grew up in, showing him the same rocks and paths his father had with him, had been an exercise in self restraint though. Keith hadn’t known then how much it would feel to share that part of himself with someone else, hadn’t known how open and raw he would feel. Bringing Shiro here had felt like handing the man a piece of his soul, opening his heart up for inspection.

But Shiro had handled it like he handled the rest of Keith: with readied gloves and careful hands. He had taken so many pictures, had pressed himself against Keith’s back to peer over his shoulder countless times. When he had presented him a sparkling geode, grey but glittering, Shiro hadn’t laughed at the rock, had cupped it like it was something precious. And when they returned to base from the trip, he had put it on his desk, front and center.

Keith had it in his box now, safe and back home.

Above a crow cawed, lowly and mournfully, and he felt a spike of heat up his arm, like a zap. Shaking the limb, he turned his fingers inward, clenching them. Pleased murmuring filled his head, pressed cooly against his thoughts like a cloth.

_Find me,_ she whispered. The sound of the river hitched, like a broken record, and he swore the current started rushing harder. _Find me._

Keith shook his hands and pressed back a grin, teething the corner of his mouth as the canyons came into view far along the horizon. The red rocks reached high and mighty, white clouds puffing along their tops, and he straightened his spine, stepping into wet mud.

_Find me,_ she sang again. He raised his camera, fiddling with the buttons before raising it and taking a snap of the deep rock formations. They curved prettily, like they were waving hello, welcoming him home.

_I will,_ he thought back to her and a honeyed purr tickled back, light and happy.

* * *

He keeps going back to the canyons.

Every trip out there revealed more of the area and the more he ventured, to parts his pa never let him near, the more he found.

Along the cliffs were carvings, strange ones he’s never seen in any book. Keith’s no expert on hieroglyphics but he’s pretty sure there weren’t any of a squared shaped cat thing. There’s so many of them, all over the side of the rocks, jutting the stone like they were deep but new. They didn’t look all that old to him at all actually. They looked fresh, like someone had carved them recently, and every time he touched them, no matter which spot he was at, water always ended up licking his fingertips.

There wasn’t a single source of water with the canyons though, not one he knew of, and not one on his map. It was baffling.

Naturally, Keith took photos of the strange shapes, tacking them up on the board in his shack, leaving yellow sticky notes beside them talking about them. He drew string from tacks to them to mark the coordinates and distance, revealing even more, smaller triangles and circles Keith couldn’t make sense of.

One thing was clear though. Whatever he was looking for was somewhere within those walls.

But there was something even more strange than the cat carvings. It was the string of words underneath them, for they were clearly trying to say something.

Keith didn’t recognize the symbols used though, a language he himself wasn’t privy to. So he took photos of them, cross searched the internet for any kind of results, and found nothing. Whatever the words were trying to say, no one would know.

He traced over them with his notebook and pinned the sheets up next to his board too. He tried going at it like a code, like the way Matt had shown him too, and also found nothing and when he looked up codes and how to break them, he found even less.

After a trip to the library, he even posted a picture of them on a hacking theorem, using a burner account, and all the replies he got were along the lines of accusing him of trying to prank them.

_Those aren’t words, man._

But they were. Keith knew it as well as he knew the burning in his body. Just because they couldn’t read them didn’t mean someone couldn’t.

They just might not be on earth.

The thought had hit him late in the night, after long hours running in the sand and coming home to do his laundry. His body had been tired and dirty, but Keith’s mind wouldn’t shut up.

A lazy look over his pa’s bookshelf had made him stop though.

Nestled in the corner, tucked in and hidden by the bulky engineering textbooks, were ones on extraterrestrial life. Keith had known his father believed in aliens, had privately wondered if that’s why the man always told him his mom was among the stars rather than the ground. Still, when he opened the books up, curious and bored, it wasn't to blank pages of neat, printed black ink.

It was to handwritten notes in the margins, his pa’s familiar, heavy scrawl leering up at him.

_Ha! As if Krols would ever be green!_

_**three toes_

_They’re carnivores actually but nice try_

Suddenly a lot more interested, Keith shoved his basket of laundry away and leaned over the couch, pressing the book closer to his face as if necessary.

It was like that for the whole book (and the others too, when he finished the first and checked the rest ). His father had something to say for almost every paragraph, laughing at and mocking the authors with little tidbits of, what he saw, as the actual facts.

Keith’s mind was rushing because as he read more it became very clear that his pa was suggesting that not only did he meet and see an alien, but he learned about them. 

It could all be a prank of course. Maybe his dad was just bored out here, got really drunk, and decided to play a game? But when Keith pulled his own notebook out and wrote all of his dad’s observations down, it really didn’t feel like it.

For one thing, the man had been excessively clear. None of the things he wrote down contradicted with each other. The author of the first book hypothesized the biology of aliens quite often throughout and while his dad did have a lot to argue back with, they all went together.

His supposed alien didn’t start out with three toes only to jump up to four and then again to seven. They stayed with three.

And when the author hypothesized all of the aliens were male with male sexual organs, his father had written in all caps, _THEY’RE INTERSEX YOU DINGUS._

The picture his father was painting was clear and with a sheet full of notes, Keith began to hastily sketch it out.

The alien his father described was tall, taller than his pa had been. Which is pretty freaking tall since his dad had been well over 6 feet. But they had been thinner, waist trimmer and shoulders not quite as broad. Still, they were stronger and faster, making Keith wonder if his dad had tried to race or arm wrestle them.

Probably. He would’ve found it funny.

The alien also presented as female, though his pa made in clear that that wasn’t the case for all of their species. This alien woman, while identifying as one, actually seemed to come from a race predominantly male, though maternal in baser natures.

She had three toes that stretched out like a cats, with ears that pointed down and muted purple skin. Her hair, unlike most, was multicolored, with dark purple bleeding into pink strands at the base of her neck, and tiny fangs filled her mouth.

To Keith, she really did sound like a purple, humanoid cat. And so that’s exactly what he drew.

What really got Keith though was the finer points of this alien woman, because while he could see this being an elaborate joke, there was a nudge in his gut saying to look harder, look closer.

Keith’s pa talked of pink hair, purple skin, sharp fangs, and filed claws. Of a sharp face and lithe figure. Of a being that could climb anything, without any aid, and make it look effortless.

It sounded way too familiar to Keith, who climbed the side of the cliffs with ease, who made Shiro choke and gasp in fright every time he jumped from the roof of the Garrison and landed on the grass softly, rolling and laughing.

He thought of the mirror and his clawed fingers, of the fangs that sprouted and tore into the skin at his wrist. Keith even remembered the pink baby hairs that tickled the back of his neck, hidden under thick layers of dark, dark hair.

And then he thought of the strange knife his pa had left him, silver and purple with a stone that glowed darkly. A stone none of his geology textbooks could even describe properly. A knife, his pa had always said, his mother had left for him.

It couldn’t be possible. It shouldn’t be.

Still. If this alien had managed to come to earth and meet his father, who’s to say the strange language on the rocks wasn’t hers? Or someone like her? And so Keith set out on another task and with his fat black marker he wrote at the top of his board

_ALIENS??_

* * *

For once, he took a break. Sort of.

The next day, Keith stayed inside and away from the hot landscapes to tinker with his pa’s old surveillance equipment.

If his dad truly had found an alien and likely hid her away here, if the book notes were to be believed, then his pa’s habits suddenly made a lot of sense.

All throughout his childhood, Keith’s pa had never taken him outside of the desert. He was homeschool for the first few years of his education and all his free time was spent either coloring, playing with his toys, or going hiking with the man.

When Keith’s dad would leave for his shifts at the fire station, he’d be left home alone, watching old tv shows and eating cereal all day. When his dad would come home, the first thing they would do would eat an actual meal before starting his homework.

While his isolation would later become something Keith noted as odd, it hadn’t felt that way at the time, and it definitely wasn’t the weirdest thing they did.

For starters, there were no pictures of Keith’s mother. There were few of him and his pa. Keith never got her name, never got anything to associate her with outside of the wrapped blade. His mother was shrouded in mystery, a faceless, nameless being Keith knew of, but would never actually know.

_Photos can be dangerous,_ his dad had said and that had been that.

What’s more is that every night before bed his dad would listen to the surveillance. It was rare for him to allow Keith around when he did, but it was like prayer, like a nightly ritual his pa couldn’t go without. He’d sit in the shack for over an hour, tinkering with the nozzles, listening and occasionally writing things down.

When he was done, he’d come get Keith and they’d go stargazing. Their first star would always be the same one though, the same direction his dad always insisted on looking at first.

Keith knows now that if his father really had harbored an alien, it was likely he was listening in for any mentions of her. Especially if she was who he feared her to be.

Photos weren’t the only dangerous things after all.

As the equipment was still somehow tuned in on the same frequency wave as the Garrison’s outside communications were, Keith listened as reports were made, indifferent things that meant nothing to him today, but could tomorrow.

Like his father before him, it seems Keith was doomed to watch the stars too. Waiting.

He leaned back on the couch, sweaty and tired. His stomach pang and he pressed a hand to it, not quite ready to get up and make lunch yet.

He lifted Shiro’s dog tags up and looked over them. The metal was dusty from all his time outside but a quick swipe of his thumb revealed the neatly printed letters underneath. 

“I’ll find you, Shiro.” He whispered, pressing the cool metal against his lips. “I promise.”

* * *

The next day he ventured into the caves.

His footsteps echoed off the walls, loud and empty as they were, and he heard the scatter of feet brushing past him, quick and light.

Sunlight peered in from the mouth, highlighting over the grooves in the walls. He traced over them, recognizing the familiar shapes by now, and took a picture for reference.

His mind had been particularly loud today, the buzzing sparking up notes every couple of minutes. There was a headache building behind his eyes from it but he took it as the good sign he was.

Whatever she was might not be in this cave, but something definitely was.

Keith walked farther in.

The cave was cool. Colder than most of the others he had been in, even around here. Water covered the floor, leaving little puddles for his feet to step in, loud and echoey in the silence. When he breathed, he saw the exhale before him, crisp and clear, like the imprint of winter.

Keith walked over to the walls, where large, deep symbols were carved. He recognized the oddly fine shapes, pointed and delicately curved, reminding him of cursive. But unlike the other walls he had seen, this one didn’t just bear the strange language, but other pictures as well.

A lion, bold and center stage, ran across the middle of the far wall, with no mane decorating her face or neck. More symbols surrounded her, like detailed dashes added for flair rather than practicality.

He brushed his fingers over the groves in the stone, feeling them wet as water coated them and steadily slid down to the floor. There was no sound of drip, no source for the peculiar sight, nothing but the steady hum in his head, in his shaking hands.

She was here.

Above him, a large circle had been carved. It resembled the sun, with childlike rays sprouting out of its curves and more symbols lining the inside of it within another band. Mirroring it, on the other side of the cave ceiling, was another circle, with bigger arms stretching out, like a hello. One stretched down far, pointing towards the ground, and when he placed a palm beneath it, Keith swore he felt a rumble.

Besides the lion, were more creatures. Ones he didn’t recognize at all. They were vaguely deer shaped, like antelopes and gazelles, though only one bore horns of any kind. They all had tails. Legs bent and stretched as they seemed to be jumping off the rock, eager and excited and here.

Alive.

Keith followed the trail of them, the cloud of his exhales getting bigger, and almost stumbled over the uneven, wet ground. He felt something brush him, something familiar, and when he turned he expected to see Shiro, his dreamself somehow following Keith here too, only there was no one.

No one or nothing except the peculiar press of a hand on his arm.

He knew this weight though, knew the curve of the bony fingers tracing over his elbow. Keith might not be able to see him, might not be able to explain this, but if any kind of magic were to bring Shiro to him, it would be the one resting here.

Keith imagined him in this cave by his side, face relaxed but eyes sharp and set. Steady. Shiro should be here.

He walked on, eyes tracking the hieroglyphs as he did, his footsteps bouncing back to him. The sound should be eerie, the whole thing should really, but the warm press of a purr against his senses made it hard to think so. This energy had been with him for so long, as long as he can remember, and hearing her now, knowing she was just on the other side, just a little further in, felt like he was finally coming home.

The desert had been calling for him for ages and Keith was ready to listen. To see.

The symbols changed, becoming more pointed than curved the further he got, until he saw a set of them far down the wall, almost touching the cave floors. With a frown, Keith finished taking his pictures, and stepped to it.

It was a sketch of humans. Or rather, being shaped.

There were six of them, all thin and lanky, clearly stick figures for the artist. The group of them were as delicately done as the others, but not a single curve hinted at their edges. Even the faces were done in the mockery shape of a square. Keith crouched down to meet them and swept his hand over the tiny creatures that reached no further than his knee.

All of them were holding a hand up. The three figures to the left each wielded a sword-like weapon, high and mighty.The farthest one held it almost awkwardly though, stretched far from their body, while the two beside him hefted it proudly. Besides these three, were three more figures on the right. The centered one was crouched slightly, with their knees bent, and seemed to exude happiness and success. Beside this one were two more, each with both their tiny arms up in clear celebration.

Keith pressed his thumb into the figure next to the center left, tracing over it’s sword, and when he did, a flicker of light passed over it, bright and blue and strong, and he jerked back.

He stood up, stumbling over his feet in his haste, and all around him the carvings flickered with light. Blue light seeped out of the cracks, filling the gaps of the shapes with color.

_Find me,_ she called, pressing against his chest, urging him on. There was a prodding against his side, another brush of a hand down his arm and slowly, Keith turned around of his heel.

Blue light ripped through stone, heavy lines cracking over the wall and dragging across it to make a makeshift door out of it. He felt a blanket of calm settle over him, power coursing through his veins as it slowly filled him like a glass. Keith felt it in the twitch of his fingers, in the wiggle of his toes, and the heat covering his back. In almost a daze, he felt himself walk forward, steps quiet and silent, and heard the rush of water in his ears.

The blue light was warm, like sun-warmed water, and tickled when his hand followed it’s path. The stone, unforgiving and unyielding, pressed back against his palm, like the nuzzling of a cat, and with a sigh, Keith closed his eyes and _pushed_ back.

The rocks crumbled beneath his hand, following down in little paths that seemed too direct and careful to have been an accident. He could hear the pitter patter of their fall, the way they tumbled out and around him, revealing a crater in the wall that he peered through.

Before him was a path, dirt-covered with barely there footsteps. Two sets. He hesitantly took a step forward, the purring in his skull getting louder, and placed his own above one of them. It was noticeably different but even after all these years Keith would recognize his pa’s boot prints.

He found her.

It was an exercise in restraint to follow down the narrow path, the cave framing around him as he went. It was dark, inky so, and his flashlight did a poor job of lighting the way but he could see he wouldn’t need it for long because at the end of the pathway was a pale blue light, glowing softly.

She stood in the center of a giant opening, hidden upon layers of rock, well below the main opening of the cave Keith explored all week. A blue forcefield surrounded her, pale and unflinching, as she peered down at him with dull, unlit eyes.

She was a lion, he realized. All those cave paintings had been of her, by her. She was made of grey and blue metals, large and hulking high above him. Her neck was bent as she looked down, eyes off, and with a trembling hand, Keith touched the shield.

Images filled his mind. Water rushing over hot rocks, a cool draft blowing in. Dark, grey skies behind her, clouds parting as she landed here, space disappearing behind her in a flash of bright, bright light.

_“You'll be safe here.”_ A man’s voice. _“He won’t find you.”_

A low mournful growl, understanding but unhappy. She didn’t understand a lot of things, young as they were here. She missed them already. Why couldn’t she be with the others? Why was he sending them away?

A flash of purple. A glowing blade, sharp and yellow, and a cruel laugh. The Emperor, her mind supplied them.

_“Don’t let him find you.”_ His hand down her face. _“You are no weapon.”_

No. She wasn’t. But the man was wrong, so much so, because Blue could be if she wanted to. Except . . .

Except her paladin wasn’t here yet, wasn’t even born, but she could feel him, far and away, and so she waited here, on this empty planet, with its dead bones, poor energy, and hungry, angry humans.

Humanity, she realized, was just as poor as the rest of the universe. None of them held the greatness she was looking for and so she waited longer.

Then she felt them. Not her paladin but close. _Something_ the void answered. Something just as precious.

Keith saw him then, his father, watching a ship crash through the atmosphere and hit the ground in a show of warped metal and burning fire. Heard him run, saw him pry the doors of this strange, unknown ship, and then he saw her, bruised and bleeding and unconscious.

She had purple skin. Purple hair. His face.

Another flash, another brush of wetness on her thoughts. Shaking hands, wrapped and clawed, taking hold of a cup, his father’s face smiling, kind.

_What are you? He asked. “Who are you?” He said._

_“Krolia.”_

Krolia. Krolia . . . the name tasted unfamiliar to him but the energy burned and burned hot. Mother, it said.

He saw them again. Krolia and his pa holding hands, working over her broken ship, rebuilding it.

_“It’s not earth’s but a ship is a ship.”_ His father’s southern drawl. Her wary eyes, watching. _“I can fix it.”_

“No,” Keith said, pleading with her. “Why are you showing me this?” _I don’t understand._

She nudged against his thoughts, her eyes briefly sparking a pale yellow. _Answers,_ she said. But Keith had never asked these of her.

Another flash. They were in his father’s room, back in the old house before it burned them all down. Krolia held out his blade, her blade, to his father. The stone inside it glowed openly and free, no bindings around it.

_“We’re called the Blade of Marmora.”_

_“A spy?” His pa asked, slow and soft._

_Her lips twitched. “I suppose.”_

He saw them again, felt water against his senses once more, and this time they were where he was, standing in the cave, before Blue.

_“Voltron.” Krolia breathed. “It’s supposed to be a story . . . .”_

_“This is what the empire was tracking?”_ His pa touched the particle barrier. _“A flying lion?”_

_“She shouldn’t even exist.” Krolia reminded him. “Altea’s story goes that Voltron never picked any paladins, never fostered a bond, and so disappeared into the cosmos, waiting for those worthy. It’s just a tale to get children to behave.”_

His pa grinned up at the metal ship. _“Well. I’d say she’s pretty real.”_

“They found you,” Keith said aloud, voice soft and full.

_Protected._ Blue said, pressing against him and the barrier between them fell.

He wet his lips and stared up at her with wide eyes. “What’s Voltron? Is that you?”  
  


_No._ She said before more images flashed in his mind. This time Keith saw more lions, just like her only in different colors. Yellow, green, red, and black. Another flash and they were all together, somehow forming a giant man with blue wings, a sword in his hand.

“A team then.” They made Voltron together. There were more like Blue out there. Red, Yellow, Black, and Green. A family.

_Family,_ she purred back, liking the term. _Yes._

“But why are you here then?”

She showed him, images of before. He saw a man, different than the one from the first flash. This one was taller, broader. Purple. He had a cloak of muted reds and golds, a scary face pulled back in rage.

_“Voltron must enter the rift!”_

No. They saw fire, destruction. Death. This man . . . Black’s chosen . . . he could not be trusted.  
  


The man from before. _Alfor. Maker._

_“You must run.”_ He told them, like they could understand him. But Alfor knew that they could, even if he was not theirs. Not now. _“Zarkon will never stop if you are here. He will use you.”_

_Not a weapon._

Keith looked down. “My mom was like him?” They both had purple skin. Pointed ears.

_Galra_ . Blue purred. _Not the same._

“How are they not?!” He yelled, stepping forward, and Blue brushed against his energy again, cool where his ran hot.

The blade flashed through his eyes again, bright and glowing.

_“The Blade of Marmora fights against Zarkon’s empire.”_ Krolia’s voice. _“Undermining him from the inside.”_

_Galra._ Blue repeated. _But not the same._

“Then where is she now?” He growled out and he heard it there, the twist of his vocals as the noise came out more throaty, deeper.

Blue showed him. Another ship entering earth’s orbit, the same colors as Krolia’s had been, but they fought, Keith’s father getting hurt, Krolia chasing the Galra soldiers off, killing them.

Another flash and they were back in the room. His father’s arm in a sling, face down.

_“It’s not safe for me to be here.” She said. “They’ll find you. They’ll find him.”_

Keith saw himself. Younger and smaller and so human. Not at all how he felt now.

_“Where will you go?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“Back.”_

_Protect._ Blue said and he knew she was right, could feel the emotions pressing against his own, could see the rationality in it, but the ache inside him burned all the same, just lower. Colder.

He fell and sat on the ground, frowning up at her form. “What am I supposed to do now?” Blue had made it perfectly clear to him that she was waiting for someone, and that someone was definitely not him. She wasn’t going to take him into space to find Shiro.

_Find him._ She said.

He bared his teeth. “How?”  
  


_Wait._ A date flashed through his mind, familiar alien language being decrypted. He saw the symbols reformed, translated.

“That’s in a week?” He asked her, uncertain.

_Coming._ She said and he stilled, holding his breath. _Wait. Find him._

* * *

He expects the dream that night.

The world around him is vastly different than any one he’s ever seen on earth. The ground isn’t all that unlike the desert skins, dry and a dark red, like the pictures from Mars. But here the ground is hard, unforgiving, and when he digs his nails into it, not a single bit of rust comes up. There isn’t even an indention in the ground and if Keith didn’t know any better, he’d say he was laying on metal or rock, but it’s still (somehow) distinctly sand.

Underneath his own legs though are a pile of dark pelts. Soft black fur is wrapped all around him, thrown together in what he can only describe as a nest. It lays over his legs, brushing softly against the bare skin. When Keith runs his hand over it, it’s velvety and smooth, soft against his dry skin like a balm, and so he does it again, a low purring resting in the back of his throat at the touch. Something inside him feels a comfort, like he knows whose fur this is, and it makes the warmth spread even further, content.

Above him, the sky is painted with bright reds and swirling purples. It’s a sight he’s never seen before, not in any of his textbooks. The galaxy above is unlike any visual known to mankind, way too bright and untouched to be theirs. Stars stretch over every inch of the sky, not a single cloud in sight, and it’s leagues above what he’s seen, even in the desert, that it has him gaping. If Shiro were here now, he’d no doubt be in awe too. They’d always love stargazing together and nothing, absolutely nothing, comes close to topping this.

When he squints, he can make out a volcano in the distant, grey fumes blinking out of it in lazy puffs. It makes the air hot and ashy but despite his building fever, the temperature is a comfort too, like the nest of furs around him.

“Keith.” He hears someone calling and when he looks around, he swears he sees something moving. Something big and just as red as the world around him but when he blinks, it’s gone.

He hears his name again, carried by the wind from the opposite direction, and this time, when he turns, he sees Shiro. Standing right next to his crouched self, like he’s been there the whole time.

Shiro is just as soft this time as he was the last, only now his body is marred in a way that makes Keith’s body tremble and go cold.

His whole right side is bruised colorfully, bloody and cut up. His arm has been mangled and blood seeps through the bandages poorly wrapped around it, bright and dark and crisp against the clean white fabric.

“What happened?” He asks before he can stop himself and Shiro shakes his head.

“Bad fight. The druids will look at it tomorrow.”

Keith doesn’t know who the druids are but he hears that strange woman’s laugh light up his mind and shivers. They can’t be anything good and from the pale, unhappy look on Shiro’s face, the man knows that already.

He reaches for his left hand instead, giving it a comforting squeeze.

“Let’s not think about it.” Keith tells him and gently pulls him forward. Shiro comes easily, willingly, and slumps against his shoulder as Keith tugs him towards the sand, towards his nest of furs. Shiro settles down gently on the ground, shifting the black velvety coat with a curious face, until he has it over his legs and is able to tangle himself with Keith.

Shiro slides down, resting his head on Keith’s chest for once, and he smiles down at him, knowing his eyes are way too telling of how he feels, and wraps the man up in his arms. He purrs contently as he scratches over Shiro’s undercut, chuckling softly when his friend nuzzles closer and hums happily.

“I wish I dreamt of you every night.” Shiro says and Keith freezes for a second, just a moment, before he continues his slow drag of nis nails. They’ve gotten too long, he notes. “You make things easier.”  
  


Keith hums. “We’ll see each other soon. I’m so close now.”

Shiro doesn’t know what he means. Doesn’t know anything about the lions in the desert, about Voltron, about the Blade of Marmora. Keith’s taken great care not to mention too much, to not get his hopes up. This close to the end though . . . it’s hard not to feel that excitement.

“Yeah?” Shiro asks and he smiles up at him, dopey and loving and Keith feels the breath hitch in his throat, hot and choked as he blinks stupidly down at him.

“I’m going to bring you home.” Keith promises, voice heavy and tight as the idea gets the better of him. He’s so close. Failure isn’t even close to being an option anymore, not that it ever was.

He’d spend a lifetime searching for this man.

“Home.” Shiro mumbles the word, rounding out the vowels. “Tell me about it.”

He sounds sleepy, so tired, and Keith burrows them deeper into the nest, draws the furs around them tighter as he squeezes Shiro’s back with his arms. It’s not a hug, he tells himself.

“It’s not much.” Keith confesses, feeling a blush light up his cheeks as they warm. “It used to be my pa’s. Before the fire.”

Talking about his father, even thinking about him, had been so much harder before. Even with Shiro Keith had clamped up. Spending this year in the desert though, alone with his books, his journals, his dreams, Keith feels closer to the man than ever. Blue had given him so much with her memories, had slotted something inside him back into place, and it makes breathing his pa’s name so much easier.

“Sounds nice.” Shiro whispers quietly and Keith hums.

“We’ll make breakfast every day.” He promises him and Shiro chuckles lowly into his collarbone, face warm through his t-shirt.

“You mean, _you’ll_ make breakfast.” He laughs and Keith joins him.

“You can make the coffee then.” He corrects himself and Shiro hums again, light and airy.

“Or juice.” He draws a hand under Keith’s shirt. It’s so hot against his skin and Keith’s tummy flutters beneath his touch as the man begins to absently draw. “I like juice.”

“Orange juice.” Keith agrees. “I’ll make my pa’s chocolate chip pancakes. You’ll love them.”

He breathes noisily, drawing himself together, and keeps going as Shiro just listens quietly, still drawing imaginary shapes on his stomach. The touch is easier now to handle.

He likes it.

“There’s only one bed so you’ll have to sleep with me.” Keith continues, looking up at the twinkling stars as he speaks. A light dances over the horizon with a wink and he follows it. “But we can get you some plants to grow outside. You’ve always wanted a garden.”  
  
“I wouldn’t mind.” Shiro says softly, brushing his knuckles over Keith’s ribs. “I’ll grow us so many flowers.”

“We can go hiking whenever we want.” Keith tells him, blinking slowly. He feels a huff of breath against the naked expanse of his throat and forces himself to be still. “Can hoverbike every day if you’d like.”

Shiro finds his hand in the furs and links their fingers, giving it a light squeeze that has Keith tipping his head down to look at him. He smiles, so warmly that he feels it in his bones, and Keith swears he’s the sun, he’s never seen anything so beautiful.

“I’m not good at laundry either.” Shiro tells him and Keith feels his grin. “I always mix the colors somehow.”  
  
He smiles back at him, softer. “That’s okay. No one will see us anyway.”   
  
Shiro laughs, cheery, and squeezes his hand again. “I can’t wait.”

Keith looks at him, looks at the smooth slope of his nose and the long scar that crosses over it. Looks at the white staining his floofy bangs fully now, reaching into dark, dark hair. Looks at his jaw, pebbled with stubble and tiny cuts and scars. Looks at the bruise blooming next to his grey eyes, soft and kind despite everything. Keith looks at him and sees everything he’s ever wanted, ever loved, and he aches.

He lifts a hand, pulls it from the safe confines of the furs, from its resting spot on Shiro’s warm back, and places it on the side of his face. Shiro’s happy smile doesn’t freeze at the touch. No he just places his own hand against Keith’s like it’s natural, like they’ve done it a thousand times before, before he presses at his fingers, squeezing them in turn with his own.

“I love you so much.” Keith tells him and it doesn’t feel like a secret now, like something terrible and to be hidden away. Keith’s love Shiro has stretched out so far, breathes so freely and loudly that it’s impossible for him to cage it back in now.

He’s not afraid of what he feels anymore.

Shiro’s smile, somehow, gets even more loving and he moves his hand from his face to Keith’s own, cupping his cheek in turn as he turns him inward. “I love you too.”  
  
Shiro’s brought their faces so close now. He can feel the warm puffs of his breath on his cheeks, on his nose, and his eyes flutter close as he breathes them in, drawing strength from the weight pressed against him. Pressed in his palm. He can feel fingers ghosting over his throat, over his collarbone, a thumb running over his pulse. Fast. Steady.

It would be so easy to just press up, to tilt his chin and meet Shiro’s hovering lips above his own. 

“I can’t wait to see you again.” He whispers and the fingers pressed against his skin twitch.

“Me neither.” Is whispered back and a set of joined purrs fills his ears, neither his own, and Keith’s never felt so warm, so loved and surrounded by family before.

* * *

“Unknown aerial on the south bend.” A voice cut across the comms and Keith sat up, pushing off his blanket and slamming his boots against the ground. He listened as the communications officer reeled off the coordinates and with a jolt he realized that that was close to him. _Really_ close.

Keith watched as the comet fell. Fire lit up the sky, painting the blue red and orange. 

White puffs clouded the air both behind it and in front of him as he breathed out. His heart beat loudly against his chest and he pressed his palm over it, feeling the fast rhythm beneath bone and skin.

As the comet fell closer, he squinted. 

That was no comet. It was a ship.

Like she had been waiting this whole time, Blue suddenly lit up his thoughts. He swallowed wetly around the question he was too afraid to ask and she purred deep in his mind.

_Go._

Keith didn’t hesitate, shoving himself away from the porch railing and down the steps. They creaked with his weight and dirt coughed up in the air as his boots hit it, but he kept running until he reached the hoverbike. He pulled the protective tarp away, not caring to check for any creatures. There was no time, no time. His bag hefted as he swung a leg over the bike, the explosives there ready and waiting.

Whatever was out there, he would find it.

* * *

It feels like hours later when he comes home again.

Keith settles Shiro down on his couch, barely paying any attention as the garrison cadets shuffled up the ladder, grumbling under their breaths and cursing. Shaking, he pulled the blanket off the back of the sofa and layed it gently over Shiro’s body. Tucking it around him and shifting the pillows, his heart skipped a beat as Shiro sighed and shifted closer into the cushions.

Falling to his knees, he slumped against the couch. Hesitantly, Keith reached out and drew his fingers over Shiro’s own. The bones were knobbly there, jutting out against his thin skin. There was a lot different about his friend though and he didn’t know where to look.

Shiro was markedly bigger than he had been the last time Keith saw him. He had always been a fan of exercise and taking care of your body, physical therapy and the Garrison’s own mandatory mission workout routines only fueling that. Still, muscle bulged out everywhere and with a long stare, he realized Shiro’s arm was probably bigger than his thighs.

Scars littered pale skin, marring what used to be smooth with rough, uneven slashes of purple and pinks. A large, white scar ran over the bridge of his nose and Keith had to fight back the urge to draw his thumb over it.

The most notable change though was definitely his arm. Metal hung from his right shoulder. He knew from packing him in that it was cool and smooth, a dark grey with thin purple lines around the joints. He’s never seen anything like it, at least not on earth, and it makes his already shaking hands even worse.

What had happened to him?

Whatever it was, made the anger within him rise up. Blue chirped low in the back of his head but he ignored her. Someone had done this to him, had hurt him and taken him apart, and Keith would wreak vengeance on anyone that even dared.

Shiro’s brows furrowed in his sleep, lips parting with a low mumble. He couldn't make out the words but from the way his eyes were moving underneath his lids was enough to let Keith know it was no pleasant dream.

Slowly, he reached out to touch his brow. Skimming his fingers down, he brushed over the bridge of his nose, through his eyebrows, and trilled quietly. 

Shiro tensed under his fingers but after a moment, where Keith only sat stiffly, Shiro relaxed with a sigh, body slumping further into now dreamless sleep.

Shiro’s body jerked in an altogether flinch, arms seizing up and legs kicking out. Immediately, he felt a metal hand curl around his wrist and squeeze painfully. The grip was bruising, making his bones shrink back, and he forced the instinctual howl down.

This was Shiro, his friend, who needed his help.

Keith trilled lowly in his throat, watching as Shiro’s eyes darted to his face at the noise. They were unseeing as he drew his gaze over, frantic and wary, and keith felt his heart clench at the sight.

“Hey,” He whispered “It’s me. Shiro, it’s Keith. You’re okay.” He swallowed, eyeing the scar across the man’s nose. “You’re with me now.”

His friend continued to stare at him, not seeing, but Keith kept his face calm, kept it centered above him as they looked at each other. Two broken things, Kerberos leaving neither of them alone or untouched. It hurt, hurt so much, but the ache was easy to ignore and overcome when Shiro was finally back here with him.

Looking over Keith’s face, eyes following the pointed slope of his nose, latching onto familiar, dark blue eyes, Keith felt the pressure around his wrist relaxing. Saw the moment Shiro came back to himself, brows furrowing as the smoke cleared and he frowned, mouthing words silently.

“Keith?” He croaked, throat scratchy and raw and Keith almost sobbed at the sound of his voice. He was _here_ , really here. This wasn’t a dream, wasn’t a ghost, and when he woke up in the morning, Shiro would still be here.

“It’s me, Shiro.” He promised, voice just as compromised. He gently tugged his arm, Shiro releasing his hold slowly but immediately, like the movement was hard for him. Shiro’s hand fell to his side, back to the couch, but Keith slid his over his face, down Shiro’s cheek, and gently held him. “You’re safe.”

Keith swiped his thumb, felt the raised skin of the scar, and breathed slowly. Shiro blinked back up at him. “You’re home.”

“Home,” He saw Shiro’s mouth form the word more than he heard it and nodded, throat tight and he swallowed thickly again. Keith pressed his thumb in harder, felt the jut of a cheekbone. Shiro’s eyes fluttered closed at the press.

“I’m safe.” He repeated and Keith leaned closer, gathered his scent close and felt the knot inside of him releasing. Shiro’s hoodie felt so heavy against his shoulders. Not as heavy as the sight of him though.

“With me. Always.” Keith confirmed and Shiro turned his face into his hand, pressing a light kiss against the soft skin.

He froze. It felt so much more real, more important, in person.

Shiro’s eyes slowly opened again and he reached out for Keith, his hand mirroring Keith’s own as it framed the side of his face and drew him in even closer. Their foreheads touched and for a second that’s all he thought it was going to be, the easy exchange of scents, of their breaths, the steady pump of their pulse, but then Shiro pressed closer and turned his chin.

Their first kiss was a hello.

His whole being crumbled and shook and Shiro held onto him tightly, like he was trying to keep him together, and Keith pressed his hands in tighter, wishing for the same, wishing to make this feel as real as possible.

Their lips were chapped and rough but the kiss was soft and everything he had dreamed of for over a year. He felt Shiro’s sorrow, tasted it on his tongue, and knew the man sensed his own in turn. Grief hung between them with baited breath but then they exhaled, pulled back, and let it go.

They were going to be okay.

Shiro’s hand dropped from his cheek slowly and resolutely and Keith watched as the man’s eyes fluttered shut, trying so valiantly to fight sleep, to stay present, but Keith shifted and pressed his thumb into the side of his mouth. Dragged it over the corner of his lips.

“Sleep.” He urged him, feeling a calm fill him as everything he had been holding back for months finally snapped and let go. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

He blinked sluggishly at him, too tired even for words, and easily fell asleep before him. Keith watched him for several minutes, watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, nuzzled his face over his steady pulse, breathed in his presence, before rising.

Standing up, his legs shook as he stepped toward the tiny kitchen. The moon still hung high in the sky, the sun not yet ready to rise anytime soon, but Keith knew there would be no sleep for him. Not tonight. 

Not with Shiro laying on his couch, alive but so plainly hurt.

He tried to be quiet as he took a cup down from his cabinet, accidentally knocking over the packets of instant coffee. They fell all over the counter in messy heaps, the sight of his vice mocking and empty. He clenched his fist, jaw snapping tight, and picked one up.

The mess could wait.

As the coffee readied, spoon idly tapping against chipped glass, he looked out the even tinier window.

Stars stretched out over the desert, blue hanging low and clouds drifting. The canyons called for him, even now, and the coyotes sung with loneliness and hunger. Upstairs, he heard a thump and some grumbling and had to bite back an angry shout.

Did they not remember Shiro was asleep? That this wasn’t even their home?

Abandoning the spoon, he brought his coffee outside. There was no porch out back of course but he settled on the stone steps anyway. Mosquitoes hung around the door, eating up the light, and he swatted one away, knees creaking as he bent and settled down.

Sighing wearily into his drink, he pushed his bangs back out of his face.

How many times had his father sat outside like this? Staring out of the windows, longingly reaching out towards the stars, waiting for someone that would likely never return.  
  


Keith knew better now, knew his mother had made the best decision she could with the terrible options they had, but his father had hung onto that hope all of those years, had stared and sat on these very steps, waiting for the love of his life that may not even be alive anymore.

Keith didn’t know war, not yet, didn’t know what that was like, but he knew enough to know the chances of ever seeing her, of meeting her, were slim. His father had been chasing a ghost and he died without her.

He knew he was lucky. Knew he would have lived the rest of his life just like his pa, waiting for Shiro, for some hint he was out there somehow. He was lucky that his ghost woke up and found their way back. He just wished his dad could have been given the same.

Silent tears rolled down tanned cheeks and he swallowed back the sob threatening to choke him. He couldn’t cry. Not now. Not with Shiro, here, alive, just on the other side of his door. Not with the random cadets upstairs, watching and too nosy for his liking.

He should be happy. Should be thankful. And yet . . . .

He took a sip of the lukewarm coffee, bitterness coating his tongue like a weighted blanket.

The morning would come soon and with it explanations Keith didn’t want to give, didn’t want to hear. Blue brushed against his senses, the energy inside him spiking, warming his coffee through his hand, and he smiled into his next sip.

It would wait. He’s got time still. Keith finally found Shiro after all.

He had so much to tell him.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Happy June and Sheith Month!


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